


Egon's Big Bad

by orphan_account



Category: Ghostbusters - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a disaster befalls the Ghostbusters, Egon takes it upon himself to restore things to normality, even if the restoration destroys the very things that matter the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sin 0: Life & Death

**Author's Note:**

> Mess of movieverse, The Real Ghostbusters and the absolutely gorgeous IDW graphic novels (but only volumes 1-4), so: continuity is vague, Egon is blonde and there is a Slimer.
> 
> (FYI, Author is a Brit, so if you spot any English-isms please point them out so I can fix them!)

The wooden floor splits like a San Francisco fault with the ghosts' next strike. Peter tries to jump out of danger and towards the kitchen door-frame where Winston is directing a switch of high-powered protons from his particle thrower at the possessed furniture spinning around the centre of the room, but he lands awkwardly on a splintered plank and hits the ground with an indignant thump.

"Y'right, Venkman?" Winston yells over the maniacal screams and screeching of the nuclear accelerators.

Peter rolls onto his back and pushes himself along the floor and towards Winston's feet with the heels of his boots. Peter digs his hands over his shoulders and pulls out his particle thrower, shoving the safety lock into "OFF" and pulling back on the mechanism, hard enough to hear the metal scratch (Ray has repeatedly told him to stop treating the equipment so poorly, but Peter never remembers proper Proton Dispersal procedure when he's in the midsts of trying to smoke a mother).

"Yeah!" Peter yells back, pointing the whipping protons vaguely in the direction of a haunted toaster. "I enjoyed my trip; I'll see myself next fall. Fuck, I hate possessions. They always make me cranky. Are the guys back with the traps yet?"

Winston shakes his head in the negative, only once - ever the conservative army man. Peter wields one-handed as he gets to his feet, wiping the sweat from his forehead. They hadn't prepared for a multiple possession, since the sweet old grandma had them convinced it was only a simple case of Class Two un-phased vapour dispersal, rather than the Class Five fully-fledged localised haunting it had turned out to be. The only thing that has Peter still in the house, rather than abandoning the whole pursuit for a re-group is the promising prospect of two more zeros on the end of their bill for the extraction. When they had realised the extent of the issue, Egon and Ray had doubled back to Ecto-1 to replenish their trap supply (the four they had brought clipped to their belts as standard lay humming, happily full on a pile of rubble in what used to be the basement).

"I think we should split them up. Looks like they're trying to form a mass in the middle of the room," Winston says, barking.

"They can do that?" Peter shouts, re-focusing his beam. A grandfather clock (whoever still has those anyway?) goes flying past and smashes straight through the first floor window.

Winston shrugs, squinting through the dust that's being sucked up from the ancient carpets as the ghosts start to swirl into a cylinder in the centre of the room. "I don't know, man. Without the science twins, I'm kinda flying blind here on what these puppies can do."

"Science _twins_? Uh, Winston, I don't have to remind you that I'm an accomplished doctor again, do I?"

"Oh yeah, Mister Psychologist. Why don't you go ask them if there's any chance they wanna go through their early childhood for forty dollars a minute?"

"Hey! That's _Doctor_  Mister Psychologist."

Both Peter and Winston cut off their streams as a path opens up towards the front door. Peter holds his thrower down to his side and Winston, going first, clasps his in _port arms_  as they bolt. The possession does seem to be centralising (something which Peter probably did expect would happen but only after years in the job knowing ghosts had a habit of pissing him off as much as possible). Anything which isn't nailed to the ground is spinning in a small vortex, and the endemic cackling and squealing is deepening from the high register to a low baritone, ominous to something powerful.

"Do we split them up or run?" Peter shouts, dreading either answer.

Winston opens his mouth to reply, but the question is mooted with two fully-charged proton streams screeching over their heads from the front door. Peter immediately hits the deck, putting his arms over his head (Egon is easily the worst shot of them all, and Ray is not that far behind). He peers through his arms towards the two men who are trying to simultaneously keep their streams from crossing and prepare the traps.

"Ray --" Egon begins, but is cut off as he ducks out of the range of a well-aimed vase.

"Traps! I know!" Ray's lunatic child-like mania has enthralled him again; Peter can judge his emotional state from the length of his grin. "This is just incredible! A real, pan-spectral unification! They must be harmonising their PKE frequencies to a combined waveform! Can you hear the difference in register? This could be evidence towards my theory that ghost harmonics are linked to the tone and pitch of their articulations!"

"Oh my _god_ ," Peter moans, rubbing his forehead. Ray's smile falters a bit and he starts fumbling a bit more with the traps. "Yes, we get it Ray, you have an extreme hard-on for the paranormal. Can you please get these bastards in the traps?"

"My interest in my work isn't sexual, Peter," Ray frowns, but Peter can tell he's not really bothered. He hasn't known anything to ever really bother Ray.

Egon has completely missed the exchange, of course, focused as he is on his task of trying to split out the smaller ghosts from the big, glow-y mass in the centre of the room. His upper teeth are buried in his lower lip, which Peter knows is Egon-language for 'I'm really not coping very well with this task at the moment, gentlemen, and require assistance'. Winston gets to his feet almost as fast as Peter does, and before long there are three streams carving up the ghost-mass into slices of swiss cheese.

"If we trap the smaller ones, the larger one will weaken, right?" Peter says, looking out of the corner of his eye at Egon. "Because there'd be less hoogamaflip to combine into the twistytwirly?"

"A sound hypothesis, Peter, although I don't think that title would pass on an academic thesis board," Egon says.

"Let's do it then!" Peter yells. Go set 'em up, Ray. We'll do the rodeo."

Ray rolls his eyes (probably at Peter's insistence never to learn anything useful about paranormal science), clasping the trap buttons in one hand and trying to spin the traps themselves into strategic positions on the smashed up floor, to assist the rest of the 'Busters with their divide-and-capture task. The cables are long, but not long enough, and Peter has to start jerking the spirit he's managed to hold in his proton stream closer to him then he would like to get it over the trap, gritting his teeth.

"Now!" Winston yells as his stream - which encompasses two hollow-looking electric-blue screamers - reaches optimal position. Ray slams one of the buttons down with his fist, engaging the trap. Winston's trap sucks up the first of two ghosts he has in his stream with ease, but the second one fights it, its petrifying screams alerting the rest of the mass. The hurricane starts to tilt and writhe off its single axis, knocking a mirror off a wall, where it lands with a smash of glass.

"Well, that's another seven years down the drain," Peter mutters. "What's the total now? About twenty-seven hundred?" Then, he shouts: "Ray, trap, Ray!"

Ray ducks under the hurricane as it tilts dangerously close to his head and clasps the button with both palms. Peter's ghost is easily absorbed and he refocuses the beam on the hurricane, trying to lure out another one. The original distorted blue-and-black is being interlaced with yellow thunderbolts, something which Peter hopes is indicative of the ghost collective losing its grip. He'd pose the question to Egon for a more scientific confirmation, but Egon is busy wrestling with his own three-heavy capture.

"D'you want us in on that?" Peter yells as Egon digs the heels of his boots into the carpet, trying to gather some purchase as the three spectres try to move in three different directions at once. If this was Winston, Peter wouldn't hesitate to add his beam to the ensnarement, but dual-capture can be a bitch of co-ordination, and sometimes the stress of complication outweighs the benefits of extra power.

"I've -- got it --" Egon hisses out of gritted teeth. He tinkers with the settings on his particle thrower until the beams starts to quake, gripping the spirits much tighter and reducing their range. Winston calls that the 'Sweet Spot', whilst Ray calls it 'Matching the Spectral Harmonic Frequency' (Peter calls it 'Getting the Lucky Shot', as he's never managed to pull it off outside of training exercises with Slimer). "R--Ray?"

"Got it!" Ray kicks Egon's trap closer to where he's holding the spirits and presses the button. The trap takes its pray quickly and securely. Egon drops his hands to his knees and bends over, breathing heavily, his normally perfect hair showing the strain of physical exertion. Ray grins, scooping up the trap. "Nice work, Egon!"

"Think we can get what's left in one trap?" Winston asks Peter, who tears his eyes away from Egon's very faint proud smile towards the situation which is, as Mama Venkman would say, going a bit batshit loco.

"If we dual it. And with two traps." Peter nods, taking up his thrower. "What do you say, pardner?"

"Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker," Winston grins, taking up his own.

Together, the two particle streams interlace, not crossing, forming a tight mesh around the cyclone. The ghosts scream, their combined voices higher again, the sound so sharp Peter thinks it might peel the paint on the walls.

The reaction on the particle throwers is instant once the grip is strong enough to disperse the ghosts into their constituent entities -- the kickback so significant Peter finds himself pushed to one of the walls. Winston manages to hold on a little better, muscles clearly groaning under the strain. Peter vows to himself to find out what training pattern Winston has and follow along (as long as it doesn't clash with Peter's regular 'introspection/nap' times).

"Come on, come on," Peter mutters, trying to get a better purchase on the thrower. The hurricane tilts and then snaps back, causing Peter's neck to whiplash, hit his head against the wall: "Fuck!"

"Ray! Egon! Little help?" Winston shouts.

Egon and Ray split up around the worst of the damage. The floor creaks and groans under the shift in weight. Peter feels like he's on a ship. He adjusts his legs, trying to spread his weight. The air itself seems to turn red, then blue, and Peter snaps his focus back to the trap -- before immediately diverting his eyes as the magnesium-grade light burns his retinas.

"The traps are set on high," Egon barks. "Don't look into the light."

"Yeah, thanks for the warning, asshole!" Peter yells. He squints his eyes to pinpricks, trying to let in as little of the dangerous phosphorescence as possible whilst still being able to see where he's leading the ghosts towards.

The whole arrangement goes from unsteady mess to almost a neatly tied up package, but the last ghost lashes out with the last of its strength, shifting the trap until it hangs over the edge of a broken floorboard. The trap whines with the tension in its jaws, ready to snap shut.

"Don't let it drop!" Winston yells.

"I got --" Ray starts, running forward, but just like Peter had just minutes before him, he catches his foot on a broken floorboard. He goes down almost comically slow. Ray's elbow stabs through the rotten wood and he disappears from sight into the floor below.

"Ray!" Egon shouts, running forward towards his friend.

"Egon!" Winston yells, trying to bring the physicist back toward the matter in hand.

Egon looks from the hole in the floor where Ray was previously to the dangerously balancing trap. Peter thinks he can see the neurons make a connection and Egon jumps for the trap with the grace that could be expected from a newborn foal. Against all odds, Egon manages to knock the trap towards a safer, stable position with one of his legs, allowing Peter and Winston the few seconds needed to bring the final ghost in. The trap shuts with a click, and silence descends.

"Back in Kansas," Peter croaks, before erupting into a coughing fit.

"Ray? Ray? You okay down there, buddy?" Winston shouts down the hole, holstering his weapon in his backpack.

Peter walks over, careful to place his feet away from damaged floorboards. Winston gets down on his knees, putting his head through the hole. Egon stands, looking concerned, his brow furrowed.

"He's probably having a nice nap," Peter says, rubbing the back of his head, where it's beginning to throb. "Takes a lot out of you, falling through holes and generally being useless at Ghostbusting."

"Be quiet, Venkman," Egon snaps, gathering up the traps. Peter gives him a shit-eating grin.

"Come on, Ray," Peter calls, sing-song, down the hole. "No need to play hide-and-seek!" There's no reply. "Ray? Come on, man. Anyone? Bueller?"

"I'm going down," Winston announces. He lies down in front of the hole before crawling backwards to back down through it. His hands grip the side of the floorboards, shortening the drop distance.

"Don't land on him," Peter comments, biting the inside of his cheek. He hopes Ray hasn't actually knocked himself unconscious. Only because Peter _might_  have let the insurance lapse, again, and the last thing they need is the expense of another full medical for their most accident-prone Ghostbuster.

Winston goes from view. "Guys, it's really not that much of a drop. Ray? Where are--?" Winston's voice changes: more military. Peter's blood goes cold. "Ray. Ray, talk to me. Are you awake? Wake up, Ray."

"Shit," Peter doesn't think about it, going feet first through the hole, his pulse racing faster than it did whilst fighting the ghosts.

The landing isn't soft and his knees bitch at him, but for once Peter doesn't think to complain. He can hear Egon upstairs, running across the floorboards, maybe to go outside and call someone or to find some actual stairs to go down, Peter isn't sure.

Peter can see Winston in the darkness, and the lightness of Ray's uniform against the grey rubble. Peter runs over, ducking his head under a single swinging light bulb.

"Ray?" Winston tries again, shaking his shoulders. Peter kneels down next to Ray, his throat suddenly dry. "Peter, he looks pale."

"I need light, Winston," Peter mutters, trying to remember the little he learnt from his single _actual_  medical rotation in college (he failed the class by not turning up to the mid-term, but he blamed the nursing dorms and their rather comfy three-person beds for that, rather than his academics). "Ray? Ray, it's Peter, can you hear me?"

Ray's eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open. Winston cracks on some insanely high-powered glow stick and dumps it next to him (they have them installed on their uniforms, who knew?). Even with the added light, Peter can't see any obvious signs of damage.

"Call an ambulance," Peter says.

"Surely Egon --?"

"Well then check Egon has!" Peter snaps, focusing on Ray as Winston scrambles to his feet.

What was the mnemonic? ABC. Okay, airway. Peter tilts Ray's head back and wipes dust from his mouth. Check. Breathing. Peter puts his head against Ray's chest, looking up Ray's body and towards his mouth. His brain runs ahead of him, trying to remember the recovery position and which hand is supposed to be the one behind the patient's head, before Peter realises he can't hear anything, and he hasn't felt Ray's chest rise.

"Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit."

Peter goes for Ray's wrist, searching for a pulse. Peter's never had to use the technique in a medical profession, but as a cheap and easy lie-detector, Peter had checked pulses throughout his research at Columbia to avoid having to pay for an expensive lie-detection machine. Peter hopes he's just forgotten how to find one, rather than Ray's not being present.

"Starting CPR," Peter yells. (Distantly he can hear Winston shout: "Oh, _fuck._ ")

Peter opens Ray's airway again for good measure, covering Ray's mouth with his own and forcing in two breaths. Peter watches Ray's chest out of the corner of his eye rise and then fall. Peter rubs his nose as he runs a finger down the centre of Ray's chest, making a quick estimate of where his ribs are and placing his hands somewhat in the centre.

Pushing himself up on his knees, the broken wood doing its best to pierce through the hard cloth of the Ghostbuster's uniform, Peter presses his hands down sharply. He starts counting -- one... two... three... four -- making estimates with time, his mouth forming the numbers but not making any sound. After thirty-five, Peter realises he has no idea how many compressions he's supposed to do against breaths, and panics, going back to the breaths and giving Ray two more, before compressing again.

"Shit -- shit -- shit -- shit," Peter pants with the difficulty of compressing Ray's chest. Peter does another thirty and then does the breaths again, going back to the compressions as soon as he can.

They're in Brooklyn, for fuck's sake - how is the ambulance not here yet? Peter tries not to think about New York traffic or giant marshmallow mascots that could be holding up people who actually know how to fucking save one of his closest friends and concentrate on the numbers, but he gets mixed up in the twenties and hazards a guess at thirty before trying the breaths again.

It's another seven cycles of absolute silence other than Peter's rapid breathing before he can hear ambulance sirens in the air, another five before he can hear footsteps.

"Here! Here! Eleven -- Twelve -- Thirteen --" Peter doesn't look up, even when someone lands opposite him on the other side of Ray and tries to stop him doing the compressions. "Sixteen! Sixteen -- I'm on sixteen."

The EMT nods, pushing a strand of hair back from in front of her eyes. "Okay. How long have you been doing CPR?"

"Um - uh," Peter swallows. Hours? Days?

"Four minutes, thirty two seconds," Egon supplies. His voice is raspy, coming from somewhere over Peter's left shoulder. "Approximately. Peter, move."

Peter feels suddenly drained, like he's in the aftermath of some destructive possession. He can feel someone pulling up, but his legs have fallen to paraesthesia. Peter falls forward. Someone catches him around the waist. Winston. Peter can tell it's Winston

"He's not breathing," Peter says. He feels stupid for saying it, but he would feel stupider not to, and it to be important. "I can't find a pulse. I tried CPR but I'm not a doctor -- well, I am, but it's parapsychology, it's bullshit --"

The EMT is ignoring him, which is probably the best thing. The three Ghostbusters move backwards as another EMT arrives with a medical bag, pushing them out of the way. The female EMT mutters to her newly arrived companion.

"His stats are dropping; he's in respiratory arrest."

"We need to intubate?"

The female EMT nods her head. "He's weighting down; we're losing him. Check him for wounds -" She looks up at Peter. "He fell? From up there?"

Peter nods, wordlessly, concious of how Winston hasn't moved his arms from around his waist. The female EMT scatters her hands around Ray, checking his head and, then, his back.

Peter can see from her face that she's found something before she announces it.

"He's bleeding," the EMT announces. "It's flowing; roll him, we need bleeding control." The male EMT quickly gets stable and they take only a few seconds before they roll Ray onto his side. "Penetrating stab injury - it's bleeding like a bitch. I think it tore the aorta."

Peter can feel himself start to lose it then. Slime, he can deal with. Buckets and buckets of the stuff: Peter might bitch, but give him a warm shower and it all goes down the plughole, but blood is another matter. Especially Ray's. Peter feels his stomach lurch and goes for the only source of light in the basement, fighting off Winston's hands, a light which Peter realises only when he gets there is a door to the front of the property, in a basement area a little lower to the road.

Peter gets outside, finds a corner and throws up.

The acid burns his stomach and tears prick at his eyes. He had barely anything to eat that morning, so most of it is clear and uncomfortable. There isn't much to throw up, but even when his stomach is empty, Peter still finds himself retching. Peter doesn't register transitioning from being sick to crying, but soon he's sobbing like a child, hitting the wall in frustration and crashing to his knees.

A calmness washes over him as his knuckles start to bleed. Peter breathes in and registers something very like the dreams he used to have as a child. Some soft prophecy, etching at the side of his subconscious, left there like a sticky note for him to read. Peter knows what it is before anyone has to say it, and moves to sit on the stairs waiting for Winston and Egon to come outside.

Winston comes out first, his face ashen.

"He's dead," Peter says, calmly, although he didn't need Winston's confirmation of what is now a fact.

"They -- they couldn't -- his --" Winston covers his mouth with one of his hands. He waves Peter off, the emotion obviously too much to form words, and he runs up the stairs to street level.

Peter puts his hands in his lap, feeling his heart rate slow.

The weird calmness makes him stand up, walk back into the basement. He can see the EMTs talking, standing over what Peter now recognises to be Ray's body. They don't notice him, or if they do Peter doesn't notice them noticing, because he's more aware of Egon, who is staring at Ray's body with the intensity required to solve one of the Millennium Prize Problems.

"Egon," Peter says, approaching him slowly. "Let's go outside."

Egon looks at him, surprisingly unemotional. Peter doesn't let his surprise show on his face, bolstered by the calmness that Peter is rapidly concluding might be shock. He takes Egon's arm with a hand and leads him outside of the destroyed basement.

It's weird that the world goes on, but it does. There's still an outside, and Peter can hear traffic. Peter takes Egon up the stairs to Ecto-1, and notices vaguely that Winston isn't here. Peter pops the trunk and sits down inside the car, urging Egon to sit next to him. Egon does.

Peter doesn't say anything. One of the rules of psychology is to say very little, whether for fear of contaminating someone else's mind or to avoid showing everyone you have no idea what the fuck you're doing, Peter isn't sure. Either way, he holds his tongue until Egon says something.

"Ray isn't gone, Peter."

Peter mentally checks denial off in his head. Egon works fast. "Egon --"

"Peter, I know you will disagree with this, because you are the person you are," Egon talks more to his hands then he does to Peter. Peter is barely able to see Egon's eyes through his glasses, but what he does see is such intense steely resolve it scares him a little bit. "However, I am positively assured that Ray is not gone."

"Egon --" Peter says, swallowing, biting back a wave of emotion which is threatening to break over him. "It's okay to feel like that. We'll go back to the Fire House. I'll call a cab for us."

"There is no need; I am perfectly capable of driving."

"Egon, humour me here."

"No." Egon stands and walks towards the driver's door of Ecto-1.

Peter knows he should insist on Egon taking a cab -- that the last thing they need is a car crash with adrenaline surging through their bodies like this (this is probably the only occasion Peter will put a New York cabbie's driving ability above a trained monkey's) but Peter's energy is so drained he gives in. Peter slides in the passenger's seat and puts his seatbelt on.

-

_Told Janine & taken her home. EMTs have taken him to KCHC. Back tonight - W.Z._

Winston had left the note on Janine's desk. Peter's head is swimming. The part of him that still feels like him notes, blandly, that it is so typical of Winston to leap for the most normal person in the building in order to share the grief. No doubt Winston would have known, subconsciously, that Egon would flip out in his particularly spectrum way, and Winston would want to avoid that, despite his propensity for highly-charged emotional situations. Saviour complex, without the willingness to save the insane. Peter puts that in a folder in his head for later.

Egon sweeps past him and downstairs to the lab. Peter realises that they left the traps in the building and finds he doesn't care that they've left expensive and, possibly nucleary-volatile, equipment unguarded in a broken down house in Brooklyn. Walter Peck be damned: if Peter has ever had any excuse for the inept actions of the Ghostbusters, let this be it.

Peter wonders if he should go after Egon, to try and talk to him. He spots a half-eaten doughnut on the counter and can imagine Janine eating it, maybe chatting on the phone to her sister (on company time), before Winston burst in and gave her the news...

The presence of un-eaten doughnut is weird, but it isn't until Peter hears a soft creaking voice behind him that he remembers why.

"Slimer?" Peter says, turning around. Slimer hangs in the air, his eyes concerned. Peter feels his face soften, despite himself. "Hey, Spud. It's okay."

" _Ray gone_ ," Slimer says, slowly, in a tone that Peter's come to realise is 'conversational'.

Peter freezes. It isn't a question; it isn't a mimic. It's a genuine fact from a ghost who, as far as Peter is aware, can't count to three.

"You know Ray's gone?" Peter asks, carefully.

Slimer nods. " _Know Ray's gone_."

"How do you know?"

" _Me not go. Me stay. Me hungry. Ray not stay. Ray gone_."

"Ray... not stay?" Peter says, his voice trembling. "You mean --" The implications hit him in a wave. "Oh."

Slimer passes through Janine's desk, taking the doughnut with him.

"Ray not stay," Peter repeats. He didn't realise until now how much he was depending on the smallest, tiniest chance that they would be able to open a trap, find Ray inside, and laugh about the whole thing over takeout. "He's passed over. He's... he's gone."


	2. Sin 1: Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a disaster befalls the Ghostbusters, Egon takes it upon himself to restore things to normality, even if the restoration destroys the very things that matter the most.
> 
> "Yea, seven are an abomination unto him: [...] he that soweth discord among brethren."
> 
> -Proverbs 6:16 - 6:19

_-_

_Several years earlier_

-

"What did you want to see me for, Egon?"

Egon looks up from the specimen slowly spreading itself below his microscope, towards where Ray is grinning at him. Ray's holding a powdered donut, which Egon hypothesises will be the majority of Ray's lunch-period nutrition. 

"I cannot be certain, but I believe I may be able to substantiate  _Dante's Hypothesis_ with significant scientific evidence."

Ray beams. "That's brilliant Egon!" Ray then pauses, thinking. No doubt, he was eager to praise the achievement before understanding the implications. Egon doesn't understands that part of Ray's behaviour, although he is grateful for the encouragement. "Wait, _Dante's Hypothesis_? Is that the idea we had back in Columbia that the Seven Deadly Sins may have implications in whether spirits may find themselves stuck in our dimension?"

"Essentially," Egon confirms, pushing his glasses further up his nose as they threaten to fall. "Although I believe I confirmed the limits of the hypothesis to extend to the original translation of the Judeo-Christian spiritual pietas: _Gula_ , _Fornicatio_ , _Avartia_ , _Superbia_ , _Ira_ , _Vanagloria_ and _Acedia._ " _  
_

"And I came up with the name," Ray grins. "So, uh, what's the new evidence as to the theory?"

"Slimer." Egon raises an an eyebrow as Ray grips harder on his donut and looks behind him, scanning the air. "No, Ray, I meant that Slimer is the new evidence, not that he is on the prowl for your lunch."

"Oh! Right," Ray says, taking a cautious bite. "Oh, I understand! You think Slimer may be a ghost stuck on the mortal plane due to gluttony?"

Egon nods. " _Gula_ tends to be the most appropriate pieta for Slimer's behaviour. Unlike full-torso apparitions with direct associations to a previous individual, Slimer may be purely the  _Gula_ extract of a previous patron of the Sedgewick Hotel, possibly one that died due to over-indulgence."

"I didn't even know you were still thinking about that hypothesis, Egon," Ray says, smiling.

Egon finds the tips of his ears raising slightly in temperature. "I do not abandon hypothesises until we have fully discredited them."

"So, what do you suppose we do with this new information?"

"Ever the engineer," Egon comments, harmlessly. "For starters, in conjunction with this, I believe we need to revisit a quandary which I raised several years ago. 

Egon walks over to where their single physical copy of _Spirit Guide_ by John Horace Tobin stood on a wooden podium, which Ray had built during the renovations of the Fire House. The copy had been bought from an occult book-store that Ray used to frequent during the freshman years of his undergraduate engineering degree, which allowed very little time for Ray to indulge in his horror-movie watching habits.

"Tobin doesn't go much into Judeo-Christian beliefs," Ray comments, almost wistfully. 

"I concur," Egon says, flipping through the tome. "Although, I do not believe Tobin intended to establish relationships with Western faiths. His records are largely a compendium of journal entries, after all."

Egon finds the part of the book he was looking for. Around a third of the way towards the end, there are four marks close to the binding which are indicative of pages being removed. Egon traces his fingers down the centre of the spine, furrowing his brow.

"These missing pages," Egon says, as Ray joins him on the other side of the podium. "We have been unable to find their contents in either the digital or the re-prints of _Tobin's_ , correct?"

"Yeah, well, I assumed that Peter ripped them out for roaches in college."

"Why would Peter require paper in order to counter an insect infestation?" Ray gave Egon one of those knowing looks which told Egon that he had probably missed a social cue somewhere. "Never mind."

"So, you're implying that there might be some link between the missing pages and our  _Dante_ theory?"

"Based purely on the few paragraphs of the previous pages," Egon says, trying to limit the speculation. Egon smooths the thin words and begins to read.

" _During the first weeks of this winter, I encountered a man in Western Indonesia who imparted upon me the importance of distancing myself from the temptations of what the spirit world could offer me._

_"I told him repeatedly of my previous encounters with spirits, and how I had found them to be either malevolent or non-aligned in their confusion as to how or why they were trapped, with no innocence in either case. I believe I managed to convince him that I was trustworthy of his advice, as he imparted on me something which I feel compelled to record._

" _The man informed me that, in order to receive the greatest gift, a god of note would require seven sacrifices to be made. Extractions of the sacrifices would be more valuable than gold to the god, as they would be the seven purest of offerings and provide more power than --"_

Egon's eyes automatically move to the next page after the four that have been removed instinctively, but Tobin's records continue into letters with Mikhael Gallon, which appear by the headings to have no relationship to the previous pages.

"Seven sacrifices, seven offerings, seven sins?" Ray summarises, leaning on the podium.

"A tenuous link," Egon says, dismissively. "The only reason I raise it is to open the possibility of further investigation into any future ghosts we encounter which display strong association with any of the seven pietas."

"Trap 'em, then let you study them rather than dump them in the containment unit?" Ray shrugs. "Sounds fine to me! We're sure that the stand-alone unit in this lab works."

"Thank you, Ray."

Ray slaps Egon on the back, causing his glasses to almost fly off. Egon presses them more firmly onto his nose.

"Don't mention it, Egon! I'm excited to see what you come up with! You don't have to run everything past me, y'know."

Egon watches as Ray leaves, eating the last of his lunch. Egon isn't entirely sure why he found it imperative to run the idea past Ray in the first place. There isn't any specific implications towards re-engineering any of the devices, which would be the primary reason to inform Ray in particular. Egon tries not to decipher his psychology, for fear of becoming Peter in any shape or form, and wheels himself over to the microscope, to continue his research. 

-

_The Present_

- 

Of course, there's an autopsy. Peter could wring Peck's neck for it, although he kind of knows why. It's the first death that the _Paranormal Contracts Oversight Commission_ is aware of, and it just happens to have had happen to a Ghostbuster. Of course Peck would have to stick his nose in. 

Peter could care less what results from it (other than, maybe, the conclusion that the Ghostbusters were somehow responsible) -- Peter more gives a shit that this has delayed the funeral, because that's a responsibility that has landed in his lap. It's Peter's job to deal with, because Winston doesn't know Ray the way Peter and Egon do, because Janine can't stop crying and has been given the week off to recover and because Egon is... being Egon.

Peter mostly lies in his bed, thinking about how much things suck and letting his mood dip into depression now and again. He talks to Winston a lot, mostly about baseball, and throws things through Slimer. Peter doesn't go to the lab much, but Egon has steadfastly refused to move since two days ago, when it all happened. Peter supposes he should try feeding him, like some sort of autistic goldfish.

Peter goes to fridge where, against all odds, there's still three takeout containers from last night's Chinese. Peter opens them carefully, then prods around in them with a chopstick for any obvious slime. They seem to be clean. Peter wonders whether Slimer has gone to Janine's apartment instead, or found something more interesting to eat. Peter grimaces and hopes that they don't have to go pull him out of the cheese vat in the Pizzeria down the road again.

Peter scoops up the containers in his arms and walks the long way down to the lab, as he knows from experience that poles plus Chinese food do not best mix. Sure enough, Egon has his head buried in a microscope. Peter knocks on the door with his elbow, something which he's only started doing since Egon was so startled he broke his glasses on the viewer.

"Hey Egon, I have a scientific curiosity for you! Leftover chinese," Peter pauses, but Egon doesn't reply. "Hey, man, don't you understand the implications of that? Actual un-slimed  _leftovers_. As in, food which wasn't eaten yesterday, but still exists in the Fire House! It's the biggest scientific discovery since String Theory. Come investigate with me."

"I'm not hungry, Peter. And technically M-theory is a theoretical hypothesis, not a discovery."

"Come on," Peter cajoles, finding a spare wheelie chair and sidling up to where Egon is adjusting the magnification on his scope. "When's the last time you ate?"

"I've been taking my nutrients intravenously."

"Hey, I thought we decided that New York's food was not bad enough for that." Peter puts chopsticks in the lemon chicken and pushes it towards Egon's microscope. "Looks like they've even managed to keep most of the rats out of the sweet and sour this time."

Peter can see Egon's nose twitch as the aroma of lemony chicken reaches him. Peter suppresses a victory smile as Egon takes his face away from the microscope and takes the paper container.

"I hope you understand this will require me to re-evaluate my nutritional loads for the next two weeks," Egon says, starting to prod the food with his chopsticks.

"Yeah, I'm sure you'll hate that. All those calculations." Peter lets Egon take three slow mouthfuls before he continues the conversation. "So, what're you working on, champ?"

Egon raises an eyebrow. "You've never been curious in my research before."

Peter shrugs. "It must be important, if you're doing the whole intravenous food thing again."

"Are you avoiding something, Peter?"

"Hey, who's psychoanalysing who, here?" Peter says, trying to smile. Egon's face remains steady as he slowly eats. Peter sighs and pulls an envelope from his back pocket, holding it in the air. "It's the... autopsy report. They rushed it through, probably on Peck's insistence. I don't wanna look at it, but I think I should because I don't want them to have decided something we disagree with, then have that dickless wonder stroll in here and shut us down."

Egon takes the envelope from Peter's hand and opens it. Peter starts on his beef and tomato, trying not to stare at Egon's face as he rapidly reads through the entirety of the double-sided three page report.

"Death by misadventure," Egon summarises after he's done, putting the paper back into the envelope. "The coroner has concluded that, although our activities no doubt contributed to the incident in question, there was nothing we could have done to prevent it, nor to rectify the damage once it had been done. Cause of death was a penetrating stab injury to the aorta by a sharp object, probably a piece of wood judging by the presence of splinters in the cavity, that passed through the mid-thoracic area, T-4."

"They've cleared us." Peter breathes out, suddenly aware of tension in his shoulders which unknots itself with the realisation. "There's nothing we could have done."

"The damage was too extensive," Egon continues, still eating his chicken. "CPR wouldn't have helped with the internal injuries. The bleeding was far too considerable once the wood had been shifted to have allowed any conclusion other than the one we experienced. The coroner advises that there is no need for a prosecution of any of the parties involved, and that this is simply an unfortunate event which could have occurred in any similar situation. Peck will not be able to use this as evidence to shut down the company."

"Gee, Egon, don't sound too cut up about it," Peter says, bitterly. Peter is fully aware that Egon is probably diagnosable as autistic, but even Peter's surprised at the absence of emotion as Egon relays Ray's fatal injury like it's a case study, stuffing his face with chicken.

Egon raises an eyebrow. "Why should I be 'cut up'?"

Peter's astounded. "Seriously? Ray's... Ray's dead, Egon. Humans have these things called emotions. You need to try them some time."

Egon swallows his mouthful, looking at the carton.

"Ray isn't dead, Peter."

Peter sighs, putting a hand in his thinning hair. "Not this again, Egon. Yes, yes he is. He's going to be buried as soon as they release the body."

"No, he isn't."

Peter's completely flummoxed. Egon is only very rarely this insistent, usually when he knows something that Peter doesn't know (or doesn't care enough to remember or find out). "Why do you think that, Egon?"

"I don't  _think_ it, Peter. I know it."

"Alright, fine. Why do you  _know_ it?" Peter says, trying to restrain his anger. "Have you spoken to Slimer, lately? Asked him about it?"

"I find it curious that you, Peter, are confident in anything Slimer has to offer us."

"Hey, when it comes to the afterlife, talk to the ghosts," Peter says, stabbing a piece of beef on a chopstick. 

"There isn't an afterlife, Peter. As we have personally experienced, the best description of the fabric of our realities is a multi-verse of sorts --"

"Egon, this is just pedantry," Peter interrupts, exasperated. "Where do you believe people go when they die, Egon? Where's my mom gone? Where've Ray's parents gone -- your parents?"

Egon doesn't hesitate to reply. "It doesn't matter what I believe, because unlike my parents, Ray's parents and your mother, Ray is not dead."

"So he's stuck in some alternative dimension then? The ghosts pulled him in as revenge?"

"No."

Peter groans, putting his head on the desk. "I don't understand."

"I know. You can't."

Peter looks at Egon, trying to decipher something from him. Egon is unreadable, slowly eating. Peter knows it's denial. It must be. Yeah, Egon is intelligent, but Peter isn't stupid. Peter's sure there is such a thing as death, despite how little it seemed to interest Egon or Ray. They've helped so many ghosts pass over -- those who weren't out to cover them in ectoplasm or suck them in a portal to hell -- they must have gone somewhere, whether an afterlife or just darkness Peter isn't sure, but there has to be some finality to everything.

Someone up there has to be caring for Ray.

It just wouldn't be fair that they're got up and close with so many devils, demons and shit-scary fuckers for there not to be an opposite with all the clouds and halos just like in those Christian propaganda animations with the pickle. Peter considers himself agnostic -- guessing there's probably something over there, even if it isn't exactly how any religions on this side have it right.

"Egon... what can I do?"

Egon's finishes his meal and puts the container on the side. Peter has the uncomfortable feeling Egon is looking at him in the same way he's looking at Egon -- completely confused as to how to communicate. 

"You can make my excuses at the funeral. I won't be attending."

It's a slap in the face which feels so real, Peter wouldn't be surprised to find his cheek reddening.

"You can't miss the funeral -- God, Egon that's just --" Hateful? Sick? Peter isn't sure, but it's horrific.

Egon returns to his microscope. "I see no reason to attend. Ray isn't dead."

"It's not -- it's not about Ray! It's about us, Egon. God, Janine -- we all need you there."

Egon stays silence. Peter can feel himself shaking. Fuck him. Fuck him and his shitty way of dealing. The one person that Peter thought might understand the crushing darkness in his soul at the idea of Ray being dead -- Peter feels numb and broken, desperate for some human contact, some understanding, and Egon just continues to switch slides, making notes.

"Fuck you," Peter spits, storming out. He's in tears before he reaches the top step.

-

"It's necessary for Peter not to understand," Egon says, pulling his legs up against his chest as he sits on the grassy hill. "If he understands, then he will be a source of comfort for Winston and Janine in regards to my behavior, which severely limit the amount of damage I will be able to do."

"Sowing discord."

"Precisely." Egon, despite Peter's insistence of the antithetical, does feel human emotion. But the pain in lying, in being deliberately obtuse and deceptive in order to achieve his aims, towards someone Egon does deeply love, is nothing compared to the pain of loss that Egon would be experiencing if he had not done so. "You understand, Ray?"

Ray shrugs from besides him. "I don't understand any of this."

Immediately as Ray died, Egon was sure that he wasn't actually dead. Although originally concluding that could have been the result of his mind closing itself to the possibility as a coping mechanism -- a reaction which psychologists such as Peter would probably classify as _denial_ \-- the hypothesis was supported with the first dream Egon had that night, where Ray came to him.

Egon has not dreamt in the traditional sense for at least twenty years, after teaching himself how to invoke lucidity at night and using the otherwise wasted eight hours to go through the more complex problems that had built up during the day. Ray appearing was more than a sign -- Egon is sure this is not his subconscious, but actual intervention by Ray, although Ray refuses to collaborate this by any experimental method Egon comes up with.

"What are you thinking, Egon?" Ray asks, playing with the grass under his fingers. He's in his Ghostbusters uniform, pre-Gozer incident, unstained with marshmallow. 

"Should I derive from that question that you are unaware of my subconscious, and therefore must be the result of an outside influence?" Egon asks.

"Or that I'm leading you down a path which your mind wants to explore, Egon," Ray smiles, carefully. "You can't know I'm real."

"My PKE readings are substantially increased post-sleep."

"Slimer could be sleeping on your pillow again. Unnoticed ectoplasm in the hair has ruined a lot of our research in the past."

"If you could just tell me something which I don't know, then I would be able to substantiate your claims in the waking world, and determine that you are, in fact, Ray Stantz."

"But I won't," Ray says, diverting his eyes. "So you should conclude that I am a figment of your imagination. Why don't you?"

Egon looks at Ray, hard. "Because I know you're not dead. You are purposely not allowing me the facility to conclude your existence."

"Why would I do that?" Ray says, picking a clover out of the grass and picking at its leaves.

"You are scared," Egon says. He shifts closer to Ray, taking the clover out of his hand. He holds Ray's hand and forces Ray to meet his gaze. "You know what I am planning to do -- what I will do -- and you are trying to convince me I am merely grieving so I won't do it."

"Egon --" Ray says, swallowing. " _Please_."

"I believe the wheels are already in motion." Egon looks at Ray's hair and notices that there is a strand out of place, falling over his face. Egon pushes it back with one of his fingers, making Ray's eyes search over his face for motive. "It was always to be that I would do this, so you are unable to be dead."

"Schrödinger's cat?" Ray smiles wanes. Egon knows he is upset. "As you were always to bring me back like this, there was no chance that I could ever really die, because if I was really dead then there would be no way back."

"I believe it to be similar to theories of time travel, that the universe will always act to ensure us to repeat our actions. The reason we would be unable to kill our own grandfather is that the universe would not be able to cope with it. If I was to try and kill my own grandfather, no doubt the universe would interfere in order to stop me, by any means necessary." Egon laces his fingers with Ray's. "I have to save you."

"For the universe's sake?" Ray says it bitterly. "I never knew I was that important."

"You are the most important person in the world to me, Ray," Egon says, carefully. "Surely you know that?"

Ray pauses, looking at Egon's tie rather than his face. When he speaks, he speaks slowly. "I suspected. I knew you loved me. I loved you too. That's why it hurts so much to imagine that you will do this in order to get me back. Would you do the same for Peter? For Winston? For Janine?"

Egon thinks. "I... do not believe I would."

"Why, Egon?" Ray's eyes are wet. Egon's heart is in his throat. "Why me? Why am I the one who has to hurt you like this?"

Egon doesn't know how to respond, other than by clasping Ray's hand tighter and holding on for dear life. Ray puts his free hand on Egon's cheek and kisses him. Egon can taste the salt of Ray's tears on his lips and finds himself similarly affected, trying and failing to hold back the breaking wave of tears which is threatening to burst out of him.

"I'm so sorry," Egon's shaking when they break apart, briefly for air. "I love you, and I am so sorry for that."

"Shut up," Ray demands, rubbing tears away from Egon's eyes. "Shut up and _let me kiss you_."

They kiss on the grass until Egon wakes. He can feel Ray's lips on his for a few beatific seconds in the morning sun.

-

Egon doesn't attend the funeral. Peter had been hoping against hope he would turn up, coming to his senses. Peter knows Ray would prefer a non-denominational ceremony, so the words the priest said were free of religious imagery, and packed with a reflection of Ray's good works. The service is small and respectful, a private ceremony with so many flowers Peter is glad he could get Janine to write to all the people who had donated them. Ray had been loved by anyone he had ever worked for or with, it seems. There's even a moving letter from the President of Columbia, saying that he's sure if it wasn't for Egon and Peter leading him down the path of Paranormal Studies, Ray could have been the youngest Faculty Head of Engineering the University had ever had. Peter can't imagine a hell close to that.

It's just close members of Ray's small family -- his cousin, a few aunts -- Peter, Winston and Janine. As they lower the coffin, Janine holds so tightly onto both Peter and Winston's hands after throwing her handful of dirt onto the shiny wood, Peter's surprised when they don't come away with fractures.

The reception is brief, most of Ray's family having to leave to get to the airport, so they arrive back at the Fire House at just gone eight. Winston has scraped together what was left of the buffet into a doggy bag for Slimer, and leaves it on Janine's desk.

"It feels really odd with him not here," Janine says, tracing her painted nails over her desk.

"Yeah," Winston says. "I mean, technically he hired me. I can't imagine what the job will be like now he's gone. Are we -- I mean --?"

It's the unspoken question, what happens to Ghostbusters PLC now the four partners are down to three. Janine looks at Peter who shrugs.

"I can't see why we should stop 'Busting. I mean, it'll be hard, yeah. But Ray wouldn't want us to give up. This was his life, it'd be disrespectful to just stop because he isn't around."

"I agree," Winston says. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you guys too."

Peter gives him a smile and rubs his arm. Janine sits down at her desk and sighs, looking at all the stationary around her -- all embossed with 'Drs Stantz, Spengler and Venkman'. Peter puts his hand on the desk, making her look up at him.

"Hey, go home," Peter says. "And it's not often I say that, so you know I mean it. Take some holiday."

"I think I'll go insane if I spend any time with my mother, Dr. V," Janine sighs, leaning back on her chair. "I'd rather stay here and do paperwork, take my mind off it."

"Hey, look, why don't we doing something tonight?" Winston says. "Nothing big, just have a few beers, watch a movie? I'll get some takeout. It might be good to just sit down and... be together, you know? Better than paperwork, at least."

"I'm game," Peter says, a genuine smile on his face for the first time that day.

"Sure," Janine also looks happy at the prospect. "Should we go and get --?"

Peter's eyes flicker to the stairs down to the lab. "I'll go, see if he's up for it."

"How is he doing?" Winston asks, lowering his voice. "I mean -- hell, not turning up to your best friend's funeral? You guys are like brothers."

Peter sighs, scratching his head. "Yeah, I know. It's Egon -- I've not seen him like this, but then again  _this_ has never happened before."

Winston doesn't look convinced. "I dunno, man. It's just cold."

Peter nods, having to agree. As much as the pain of burying Ray hurt, it hurt so much more knowing that Egon wasn't there to help him do it. He feels more than betrayed, but Peter can hold onto the hope that it's a phase and, soon, Egon will realise what a bastard he's been and apologise. Soon.

"It's not _cold_ if the whole ceremony is a pointless charade, Zeddemore."

Peter's heart freezes in his chest. Egon is walking up the stairs, swinging empty traps behind him. Peter can see Winston's hand clench on the wooden desk.

"What did you say?" Winston says, darkly.

Egon throws the traps on Janine's desk, making everybody flinch.

"I had to attend the incident at the Waldorf today, alone. That was more productive than whatever you were doing."

Winston gets closer, squaring up to Egon. The height difference is barely noticeable, and Peter looks nervously to Janine, who's eyebrows are close to being in her hair. 

"Hey, guys? Why don't we just --" Peter tries, but Winston points his finger on Egon's chest.

"How  _dare_ you, man. We were saying goodbye to our friend --"

"Your friend? Ray was closer to me and Peter than he ever was to you. You're just an employee. Here for the steady paycheck, remember?"

"Boys! Cool it!" Janine shouts, but it doesn't distract either of them, especially Winston who looks close to snapping.

"All the shit we've been through, Egon, and you seriously think that?"

"Don't try to guess what I'm thinking, Zeddemore. I doubt you have the mental capacity to both think at my level and remember to breathe."

"Are you trying to pick a fight or something?" Winston says, pushing on Egon's chest. Egon moves backwards, towards the lockers, but stays upright, his eyes glinting. "What's up, man? Didn't get punched enough in school?"

"Peter --" Janine pleads. "Stop them --"

Peter tries to get in-between them but Egon pushes him away. 

"You abandoned us when we needed you with Vigo, when you weren't getting paid, despite the fact we needed you. How long until you abandon us now? It's just money with you, always has been --" Winston grabs Egon by the collar, hauling him up and against the locker. Winston's practically growling, but Egon won't shut up. Peter tries to pull Winston's arm away, but he's too strong. "Remember what you yelled when Ray was dying down there? You wanted me to get the trap. You were just focused on the job, not how Ray was bleeding out, shouting for us to help. Some friend you are --"

Peter doesn't blame Winston for hitting Egon, straight across the jaw. Hell, he probably would have done the same thing, although he would be far less successful at it. The sound of fist against cheek-bone is brutal and Egon hits the floor after, his glasses shattering. Winston is still fuming -- Peter gets in his sight line, trying to calm the situation down.

"Winston? Winston, cool it. Look, Egon's just trying to seek an easy out. You're better than this, you're --"

Peter's voice gets cut off as something blasts in front of them. The force propels both Peter and Winston across the room. Peter slams into a wall, the wind forced out of his lungs painfully fast and his vision goes white. Janine screams and Peter tries to open his eyes rather than go unconscious.

There's a red... something in the air. A cloud of something. Peter spits out blood and swears. Great, Peter thinks, let's add a ghost to the mix. That's going to make everything  _so_ much better.

Peter crawls over to Janine's desk as the red something swarms around Egon's prone body, screeching at him. Peter isn't sure whether the punch knocked him unconscious or the explosion did, but Egon's sure as hell out of it now. 

"Pack! Trap!" Peter yells as the air starts to swirl around them. The cloud is forming into something a lot more solid, and with more teeth.

Peter can't see Winston through the red mist that's descending everywhere. He can barely see the walls. Peter falls to the ground and starts commando crawling towards where he hopes Ecto-1 is parked.

Luckily, he doesn't need to. There's the comforting sound of a nuclear accelerator being switched on and the red mist is sliced through by a proton stream. Peter can see it's Winston and runs through the newly created path towards the empty traps on Janine's desk. The ghost screeches and fights against its holding and Peter throws the trap on the floor, stamping on the switch.

The ghost screeches as it's sucked down, but the mist dissipates the instant the trap snaps shut. Peter doubles over, spitting out the blood that he realises is from his tongue. He must have bitten it when he was pushed against the wall.

"Was he possessed?" Winston barks, dropping the Proton Pack onto the floor. Janine emerges from under her desk and runs towards where Egon is lying, still unconscious. "Somebody tell me whether that bastard was possessed so I can stop wanting to kill him."

"I don't know," Peter says, clutching his head. "I don't --"

"Oh, Egon," Janine says, her voice distraught.

Peter looks over to where Janine is holding Egon, stroking his hair. Egon is openly crying in her arms, his head buried in her shoulder. The anger drains from the room and Winston lowers his fists as they start to hear what Egon is saying as he weeps.

"He's dead. I k -- killed him. He's d-- dead. I killed him. Oh god, it _h--hurts_. I'm so s--sorry. I'm so sorry, Ray. _Ray_."

-

"Are you sorry?" Ray asks that night, in the field,

"I do wish I didn't have to do that," Egon says, holding tightly onto Ray's hand. "I honestly wish I didn't have to. But --"

"But you had to," Ray finishes. "You had to get Winston so angry that he sinned."

"I enacted an incantation before they came back," Egon explains, staring at the grass in front of him, his voice distant. "It's purpose was to locate and magnify spiritual disturbances into visible forms. I predicted I would be able to enact the required emotion and then the incantation would induce the production of the ghost. I predicted correctly."

"The spirit of pure Wrath. And Peter caught it."

"I have it in the lab. I'll distil it in the morning."

They're silent for a bit, listening to larks, until Ray interrupts the distant noise of birds.

"Does -- does it hurt?" Ray asks.

"My bruised cheekbone, or the split in my soul?" Egon rubs his unblemished face, crossing his legs on the grass. "More than I imagined it would. I did not believe that being the cause of the Wrath daemon would split my soul, although I am --" Egon breathes out, the relief obvious, "intensely grateful that it did not split Winston's."

"I guess it would make sense that to please a god, the sins would have to be self-sacrificed," Ray says, rubbing Egon's hand.

There are several instances of split-souls in many of Egon's books, including  _Tobin's Spirit Guide_ , all of which Egon is acutely aware of. However, most of these are second-hand accounts rather than accurate descriptions. Egon can feel something inside himself be different. The closest approximation he could make was the feeling that part of him is gently out of phase with the other part. Everything feels slightly different, slightly less. As if a curtain was slightly obscuring everything that made him, him.

"I wonder whether you will still love me when all this is over," Egon asks, quietly. "My soul will be split seven times. Who knows what I shall be like?" 

Ray laces their fingers together, putting his head on Egon's shoulder. Egon turns to him and then kisses him, his eyes stinging as he realises that the kiss, too, has been affected by the soul's split. It's less there. It feels more like a dream.

"I will always love you," Ray says against Egon's lips, his voice quavering, and Egon hopes against all evidence, that it will be so.


	3. Sin 2: Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a disaster befalls the Ghostbusters, Egon takes it upon himself to restore things to normality, even if the restoration destroys the very things that matter the most.
> 
> "I will turn away from My signs those who are arrogant upon the earth without right; and if they should see every sign, they will not believe in it. [...] That is because they have denied Our signs and they were heedless of them."
> 
> Surat Al-'A`rāf, 7:146
> 
> (I apologise wholeheartedly for my Russian. Hover over the text to see the translation.)

Peter very much feels like the stereotypical child of divorced parents after what happened between Egon and Winston. Constantly flitting between mom and dad for approval, going back to an illicit smoking habit he hasn't had since college, and not entirely sure whether's he's completely blameless for the split. Although, on the upside, Peter supposes he may get two Christmases this year.

Janine confined Egon to bed-rest, which surprisingly he relented to. Peter supposes Egon's slid straight past bargaining and to depression, if his outburst at Winston was evidence of anger. Always ahead of the curve: that's Egon. If he is depressed, sleep is probably a blessed relief compared to pretending everything's okay all the time.

And, judging by the snoring, Egon's been asleep more than he's been awake for the past day, which Peter's actually relieved about. At least they know where he is, and how he's doing. Even if that's 'in bed' and 'mumbling in his sleep about his dead best friend; refusing to ingest anything that isn't water'.

Peter's throwing a baseball against a wall outside their bedroom as Janine tries to get Egon to eat. Peter's been banned from trying ever since he emptied a bowl of soup over Egon's head in frustration. Janine comes out about half an hour after she went in, tray amazingly empty.

"He ate it?" Peter says, surprised and a bit jealous.

Janine shakes her head. "Not even a bite. I put it by his bed, with the little ingredients label, so he could know how many saturated calories were in his junk food."

"The presence of numbers will no doubt comfort him in his time of need." Peter slides up the wall and punches his baseball into his palm. He starts walking with Janine towards the stairs. Usually he'd take the pole, but remembering Ray's guileless joy at seeing the damn thing for the first time has started pulling at Peter every time he thinks about using it. Peter supposes he'll go down it when he's properly drunk and get over it that way. "How's he doing?"

"I think better," Janine says, but her voice is devoid of confidence in the statement. "I mean, he held eye contact this time, told me to get lost before rolling over and going back to sleep. Is that normal?"

"What am I, a psychologist?" Janine gives him the glare. "Okay, okay. Professional Venkman. These things take time and he hasn't let himself grieve. But, if he's still like this in a few days I'm re-submitting my 'crush some valium into his water' idea to the group."

"I've never seen him like this. He's always been the man with the plan, but now he's -- he's just so hopeless. It's just sad, huh?" Peter hums in reply, non-committedly. Janine pushes her glasses further up her nose. "I knew you guys were close, but jeesh you seem to be handling it way better than Egon. I thought you'd be the blubbering wreck, not him."

"I'm glad I inspire such high opinions of myself in my staff."

"No, really, I don't get it. Why's it cutting up Egon so bad?" Janine lowers her voice. "Is it a, you know..." Janine's lips twitch, unwilling to put a name to a diagnosis.

"He's not autistic," Peter says, sighing. Janine raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Seriously! I gave him the test and everything. He asked for it, senior year. I got us all these certificates of complete sanity. Had mine framed and used it to pick up girls."

"Egon  _asked_ for it?"

"Yeah. Well, it was a bit stupid, really. We'd just met Ray -- he was just some geek a few years younger who was earning a quick buck as a lab TA, clearing up stuff after electronics lab sessions, stuff like that -- and they got chatting about ghosts and the paranormal.

"I never went into it, of course -- I've always been far more interested in ESP, telepathy, clairvoyance. You can see how influential I've been to the guys by how we have a successful ESP investigation centre and not some ad-hoc ghost-catching service operating out of a Fire House."

Janine smiles, and Peter sighs, throwing the ball between his two hands as he remembers the early years.

"Ray's always been convinced of ghosts, but it took Egon some time to adjust to the idea from the regimented, clinical attitude he's always had. So when he started to turn around to the concept, he decided he must have a brain tumor, or have some sort of sudden-onset schizophrenia.

"To put his mind at ease, 'cause he was really getting on my ass and he wasn't above trepanning at that stage, I put him through all the stuff I could to try and convince him he was A grade sane. All my best psychological and parapsychological tests, the ones I only ever got out when I really want to impress a chick. I knew more about him then I did myself that summer."

"And? The Venkman diagnosis was?"

"Intelligent, necrotic, screwed up socially, less than average P.K.E awareness, possibly part-Vulcan. Oh, and shit at sports. But not diagnosable as anything. And, believe me, I tried my best. He would've paid me all through college if I could've convinced him my therapy would've been any good."

"Gee, I hope you don't charge hourly for that kind of analysis, Dr. V."

"Baby, when you're with Dr. V, you don't need an hour," Peter stops on the stairs. "Wait, that came out wrong."

Janine sits at her desk, looking at the phone. She drums her fingernails on the wood, before letting out a frustrated sigh.

"Ugh, do I plug it in or not?"

"It's not plugged in?" Peter's stomach instinctively rolls as he imagines the money they've lost in missed calls, before his brain catches up and reminds him why it's been unplugged in the first place. Peter swallows and shakes his head as Janine glares at him. "Right, right. Got it. Just, you know. What are we paying you for?"

"My stunning interpersonal skills," Janine replies, deadpan. Peter gives her a smarmy smile. "So I should plug it in? I'll refuse all the big jobs - just take the twofers you and Winston could handle?"

Peter bites his lip, reluctant to give an answer. It occurs to him then how easy it's been to duck out of decisions in the past, usually relying on Ray for that, or Egon if Ray was busy, and how that actually isn't an option any more. With Ray gone and Egon AWOL, it's really him in the big chair. It doesn't feel as good as Peter thought it would.

"Yeah, go for it," Peter says, sounding more casual then the decision feels. "Small jobs though, okay Janine? Unless you feel like joining us and getting some multicoloured slime added to your fabulous do?"

Janine visibly shudders and puts up a hand. " _Pass_." Janine gets under the desk and Peter waits until the light on the phone illuminates.

When it doesn't instantly burst into a cacophony of default ringtone, Peter lets out the lungful of air he didn't know he was holding. Peter throws his baseball up and catches it again, looking around the room for something more interesting to throw it at.

"Hey, Janine? Have you seen the Spud anywhere?"

 

-

_City Hall_

_Office of the Paranormal Contracts Oversights Commission_

-

 

"Mr. Peck?" Walter rubs his eyes as his new secretary knocks on the door whilst entering. It's an irritating habit that Walter hopes she will eventually learn to stop, which is why Walter doesn't speak to her but stares until she looks suitably embarrassed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I should have --"

"Waited to be invited in?" Walter finishes, putting his coffee by the side of the files that are piled on his desk. "Yes, if you could possibly stop doing that, then I won't have to speak to the Agency about you."

"B-but sir, I'm permanent staff --"

"Ooh, that's unlucky; It will probably be twice as easy to have you fired. What was so important that you had to barge in?"

The secretary looks suitably ashamed as she puts the brown file on Walter's desk. "Dr. Stantz's autopsy report."

"Conclusion?"

"The - the lawyers have looked at it and they're convinced there's no evidence to close down the Ghostbusters. Misadventure, not murder." The secretary winces, as if expecting a violent reaction. Walter smirks, from behind his coffee. The secretary eventually opens her half closed eyes, waiting nervously.

"You expect me to be disappointed?" Walter concludes.

"Um. Not necessarily, sir, but I thought -"

"Thought I had a grudge against The Ghostbusters? Thought I'd like nothing more than to see one of them dead?"

The secretary pales. "N-no sir, of course not."

"Good," Walter opens the autopsy report and finds his stomach unsettle at a particularly graphic photograph of Dr. Stantz's autopsy. Walter swallows and closes it, trying to bleach it from his mind. "I might have not appreciated them politically, but I would never have wished any harm on them. Besides, they are our sole contractor for paranormal intervention. Without them in action, the city is practically defenceless."

There's silence for a while, until Walter looks up. The secretary is nervously standing, her hands unclasping at her sides. Walter boggles at her. 

"I'm sorry? Did you have more to tell me?"

"Um. No, Mr. Peck."

"Go - get me another coffee. Now."

The secretary bounces away, slamming the door too hard behind her. Walter winces, putting his fingers to his temples, trying to stave away another migraine which has been threatening to come on for the past few days, ever since this mess began.

Walter walks over to the filing cabinet, where the copies of all the Field Reports _Ghostbusters Inc._  have ever bothered to file are placed. Walter flicks through them to the tab marked _Personal_ and slips in the autopsy report, sighing to himself.

Shutting the metal cabinet with a clang, it seems very final. The last of Dr. Stantz's involvement. Walter snarls to himself. It couldn't have been Venkman. If Venkman had been stupid enough to get himself killed, then Walter would have practically been able to write out the PCOCs response from memory (careless, unfit to the PCOC's rigorous standards, dangerously under-qualified).

The press have been whipping the city into a frenzy ever since the incident had been leaked from the hospital. The papers were full of overly dramatic headlines - claiming that, since the Ghostbusters were incapacitated, it had to be a sign of a devastating new evil beginning to rise its head.

Walter didn't stoop to wild assumptions, but nevertheless the city of New York now needed assurance that there was proper paranormal security was in place. The Mayor had more than yelled that at the emergency briefing. 

Walter sighed and returned to his desk, drumming it with his pen. Against his better judgement, he picked up the telephone, and found himself dialling a number which had been buried into his brain by an annoyingly catchy jingle years ago.

" _Ghostbusters. Whaddya want?_ "

"Miss Melnitz, I --"

" _Oh, not you. Please, I've got enough to think about without having to listen to your crap --_ "

"Miss Melnitz, please. I'm... deeply sorry for your loss. Dr. Stantz contributed great things to the city on a multitude of occasions and I just wanted to express my condolences, on behalf of us all here at City Hall _._ "

The admission must have briefly stunned the Ghostbusters' usually formidable secretary, because Walter could hear silence on her end.

" _Well... thanks, Mr. Peck. But don't think that makes us even, because it doesn't._ "

"Frankly, I would be terrified if you thought it did."

" _Is that an attempt at humour? Are you feeling okay?_ "

Walter couldn't suppress the dry smile. "I wished to speak to Dr. Spengler, if possible?"

There was another short pause. " _I'm afraid he's busy at the moment. Dr. V's here, if you wanna speak with him?_ "

"Dear god, there must be someone else I could speak to? Zeddemore? That slime mascot of yours? A stapler?"

" _Nuh uh. Dr. V or nobody._ "

Walter sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps it would be better to speak to you, Miss Melnitz. I think if you were to transfer me to Venkman, he would put the phone down without hearing me out."

" _Gotta say, Peck, my finger's been hovering over the disconnect button ever since I recognised your voice._ "

"I wished to ask --" Walter tried to think how to phrase the question tactically. "In light of the recent events, whether Ghostbusters Inc. can be expected to fulfil the terms of their contract with the City of New York."

There was a long, pregnant pause.

" _You fucker. Ray dies and your first instinct is to try and get out of the contract?_ "

"No -- no, Miss Melnitz, you're misunderstanding m --"

" _How_ dare _you, Mr-high-and-mighty-piece-of-bullcrap! I swear, if you were down here, I would claw your eyes out and kick you so far up your ass you'd be tasting the tips of my high heels. My boys are going through hell right now, but you can be damn sure they're not going to bend over and break just because of this. So you can shove your fake concern and stop whatever evil thing you're planning to screw my guys out of their hard earned pay, because we'll fulfil every inch of that contract -- and then some!_ "

Walter winces as he hears the phone being slammed down and the dial tone. He's not sure whether to be reassured or terrified.

 

-

 

Egon's fingers are tented under his chin, thinking carefully. He's staring into nothingness, which allows his brain to properly focus for the first time in a good few hours. Slipping between dream-states is using up more of his energy than he had hypothesised, worsened by the impromptu fast.

"Pride."

"Yeah, Egon?"

It's the first thing Egon's said in almost two hours. Egon looks up to where Ray's standing, looking at him curiously. It reminds Egon very much of college, where they would spend late nights in the electronics lab as Ray packeted up IC chips and breadboards for classes the next week, and Egon would shoot questions in his direction regarding the implications of parapsychological phenomena. 

"It occurs to me that the essence of pride is not, in itself, a very sinful thing."

Ray looks thoughtful, up at the sun. "Yeah. I can get that. We take pride in our work, but it saves New York, so it's okay to be prideful."

Egon nods, taking his eyes away from Ray and back towards nothingness. "The sinful aspects of pride seem to be more self-obsession. Vanity as a concept, rather than the implications it has. If I was to pridefully obsess over my research rather than it's applications in Ghostbusting, for example, then wouldn't that be rather an expression of sloth, rather than pride? The action of not-doing, even if it was for a prideful reason, would be a slothful action."

"You're talking about pride because you haven't worked out how to do it yet, aren't you?"

Egon looks at Ray again, who is slightly frowning. "Astute observation."

"So, lust? Greed? Envy? You've got all those? Just stuck on this one?"

"You're in my mind, Ray. Surely you are already aware of that?"

"Maybe I don't want to believe it," Ray says, quietly. Egon pretends not to hear him. Ray sits besides Egon, sighing and rubbing his forehead. "How's your soul feeling?"

"Better now I'm not eating," Egon mutters. "Staying here, with you, seems to be a lot more effective than being concious at the moment."

"That's not what I want," Ray says. "I want you to be with the guys. They've got to be hurting."

Egon ignores him again, sliding his eyes into nothingness. "Pride has been thought of as the source-sin by scholars of virtue. Pride-fullness often leads into the expression of the other sins."

"We're not very prideful," Ray says, thoughtfully. "I mean, apart from Peter."

"Peter is arrogant."

"Peter isn't arrogant, he's proud of us because he knows our capabilities. He knows us, and what we can cope with."

"This isn't helping," Egon says, rubbing his temples. "I need to think."

"You need to sleep."

"I'm asleep now."

"No, you're unconscious now, and the PKE phenomena which you're using to get me here isn't exactly resting you if you're tiring out your frontal cortex with enough alpha-waves to microwave popcorn, is it?"

"Then how do I sleep, Ray?" Egon didn't mean to bark his question out, loud enough to make Ray flinch. "Sorry. Sorry."

Egon sighs, clutching his hair. It's getting harder and harder to concentrate with the questions swimming around in his mind. He cannot switch off, no matter how hard he tries, and the painful moments where Egon does find some sort of comfort are ripped from him as soon as he remembers that Ray is gone, and how much that pain hurts.

"Come here," Ray says. 

Egon looks at him and Ray motions him closer. Egon shuffles across on the grass, feeling very undignified, and lets Ray take both his hands.

"Lie down."

Egon lies down, facing upwards on the grass. Egon stares at the nothingness in the sky, feeling Ray position himself beside him on his left side, sliding one of his arms over Egon's stomach, the other bunched between their two bodies. Ray puts his head on Egon's chest, slowly moving his thumb over Egon's jacket.

"What are you doing?" Egon asks, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

"Cuddling," Ray says. Egon can't see Ray's face in this position, but he can hear that Ray is smiling. "Best way to convince someone to go to sleep."

"A dream within a dream?" Egon furrows his brow. "I'd question the validity of tha --"

"Shh, boy genius. Get some shut-eye."

Egon convinces himself the tactic won't work, that his brain is now so unused to inactive REM that isn't psychokenetically charged that there's no possible solution to his insomnia, but Ray is surprisingly warm and his hair smells of familiar shampoo. The smell and the warmth seems to curl around Egon from all angles, and he can feel himself yawning, and re-evaluating his thoughts until the moment they disappear and he relaxes into long-overdue sleep.

 

-

 

"Winston! My main man! Give me five --"

"Don't start it, Pete," Winston says, sitting down at the table. 

Peter grins at him innocently through a mouth full of poptart. "Start wa'?"

"The bit where you pretend you're street because you fell asleep listening to _Showtime at the Apollo_." Winston puts his overnight bag on a spare slice of table and puts some toast on a plate.  _ **  
**_

"See, you know me so well. That's why you're my brother from another mother."

"Dear Lord," Winston says, looking up at the ceiling and clasping his hands together. "Forgive me for what I must do."

Peter laughs and starts pouring Winston some OJ from the oversized jug in the middle. "How was Tiyah?" Winston gives that sheepish half-smile of a man who got properly laid last night, but is too virtuous to admit it. Peter whistles appreciatively. "Good man."

"Yeah, yeah. It's early days yet," Winston says, buttering his toast, sounding almost wistful for some reason. "It was just good to get to sleep in a normal bed for once."

"Hey, we have normal beds here," Peter says, mock-offended. "Yeah, they get tentacles occasionally, but that just adds to the fun."

"Janine says she plugged the phone back in," Winston says, taking a bite. "Are we cool to go out if we get a call?"

Peter shrugs. "I guess so?"

"How's, uh --" Winston looks over to the closed bedroom door. 

"He got up to pee today," Peter says, proudly. "Which is fuckin' great because I haven't put a catheter in since first year PhD."

"I didn't know you did a medical rotation."

"Who said anything about a medical rotation?" Peter says, stuffing the last of his poptart in his mouth and dusting off his hands. "I sh'd prob' go ch'ck." Swallows. "Haven't heard anything from him in hours."

"I've just had a shower. There was still some minestrone in my hair."

Peter and Winston's heads snap around at the raspy voice coming from the opposite side of the room. Egon looks tiredly through his glasses, his hair depressed with the weight of the water that's still dripping onto his towelling bathrobe. Peter isn't sure what to say, looking quickly at Winston and back to Egon. Winston is staring at his plate, chewing as if he isn't bothered by this turn of events. Egon is looking suitably ashamed, which Peter kind of appreciates. 

"Good," Peter says, smiling through the uncomfortable silence which seems to have just descended on them. "I'll add it to your medical notes. Breakfast?"

Egon looks a bit queasy at the prospect. Peter can see the internal battle fight it out in his head for a few microseconds before he nods and walks over, taking a seat. "Perhaps just some dry toast."

"You sure?" Peter says, temptingly pulling out his secret weapon from his jacket pocket. "I got that liquid Oreo stuff that's supposed to be for desserts but I've seen you use on chicken..."

Egon practically snatches the bottle from Peter's hands. "Where did you get this? I thought the FDA had it removed from consumer acquisition."

"I'll never reveal my sources," Peter says, holding his hands up. He had actually spent hours scouring for it, convinced that the best way to get Egon to eat something would be to try and find something suitably high in both saturated fats and simple sugars. The plan had been to possibly sit on his chest and pinch his nose, forcing Egon to open his mouth and then stick the bottle in (something which Peter would only take medicinal pleasure out of, of course).

Egon takes two pieces of toast and systematically starts squirting the white-black liquid across the slices with the precision of a machine, focused purely on the task at hand.

Winston shakes his head, slightly smiling. "I will never, ever understand how you are still stick thin when you eat that crap."

"A high metabolism and a rigorous exercise regime," Egon mutters, completing his work with a flourish. "The imbalance of calories against nutrition can be easily overcome as long as all the variables are taken into account."

"What a time to be alive," Peter says as Egon starts eating, curling the toast around to stop the Oreo mush from escaping. "Dear god, what science allows us to do."

Egon pauses in his chewing, as if suddenly reaching a realisation. Peter's eyes narrow, but the slight frown line in the centre of his forehead disappears almost as soon as it appears. Egon holds his toast slightly away from his mouth. 

"Winston, I need to apologise to you --"

Winston holds up a hand. "It's okay, Egon."

"It really, _really_ isn't."

"No, look," Winston says, finally looking at Egon's face. Peter can see Egon try to decide whether to lower his breakfast monstrosity or not. Evidentially, the Oreos win. "I get it, really. When I was in the marines... man we broke a hell of a lot of furniture when one of our guys died. I'm just glad you took it out on me rather than the scary-ass equipment. Ray was one of us. Of course you'd go crazy. _I_ should've held back on my anger. Not hit you."

"Yeah, but Egon was being a bit of a dick," Peter says. Winston glares at him. "I'm just saying! Blame on both sides, here."

"I don't blame you for hitting me, Winston. I believe I would have done similar under the same circumstances," Egon says, taking a bite.

"Now _that_ I would pay to see," Peter says, leaning back on his chair. "So, we're all best buddies again now?"

"Can we afford to be anything else?" Winston says, grabbing his OJ. "Janine told me Peck called her, questioning whether we can fulfil the emergency government contract now we're down a man."

Peter's mouth gaped. He slammed the table and stood up. That  _fucker_. "That's it! This is what justifies murder! I need duct tape, a length of rope and an iron: he is going out  _Clue_  style."

"Peter --" Egon warned, finishing his first slice of toast. "I don't believe that would be constructive."

"Who cares about constructive? I want to pull out his spinal column, vertebrae by vertebrae."

"We all do, Peter," Winston says, his hands flexing on the table. "But Egon's right. The last thing we want is to give him an excuse to give the contract to someone who can't actually fight ghosts."

"Plus, do not forget the retainer."

Peter paused, letting out a frustrated groan before slamming back down on the table, crossing his arms.

"Fine.  _Fine_. He lives. But if I see him in the next month, I am not responsible for my actions."

"When are you ever responsible for your actions?" Egon asks, almost innocently.

Peter makes a face at him. 

They eat in comfortable silence, united by hate for City Hall and steadfastly ignoring the obviously empty fourth chair, the view of which Peter had blocked with a well positioned box of Lucky Charms. Peter reaches for another pop tart when the alarms start ringing.

"WE GOT ONE!" Janine yells from downstairs, somehow audible over the ancient Fire House alarms. Peter isn't unconvinced she hasn't got a bullhorn down there.

Peter runs for the pole, automatically trying to beat Winston to the first slide down. Winston gets a better start, stuffing the last of his breakfast in his mouth and beats Peter by a fraction of a second. Winston laughs triumphantly on the way down, so Peter starts shaking the pole. 

"B-butt-he-head!" Winston calls as he's sliding.

Peter grins, turning around to share the joke with Egon, who hasn't moved from his seat. Peter frowns. "Come on, man. We've got a call."

"I wasn't aware we were open again," Egon says.

Peter realises he's gone just a shade whiter than normal and thinks quickly.

"If you don't wanna come, that's fine, Egon," Peter says, shrugging. "I mean, I can use the PKE meter. If the button doesn't activate the flippy thingies I can just pull them out with my teeth, yeah? And if it starts going 'whirr-fzt-whirr', I just hit it against something hard until it stops?"

"I know what you're trying to do, Peter," Egon says. Peter looks at him innocently until Egon gets out of his chair, picking up his plate and putting it in the sink. "But I honestly do believe you can be that incompetent with the equipment."

"Get changed, boy genius," Peter says, picking up a jumpsuit from a nearby locker and chucking it in his direction. 

Peter doesn't see Egon's expression before his entire head is covered in teal. 

 

-

 

"Class Six fully formed apparition. There have been varied reports of spectral sightings in this area over the past hundred years, especially since a large fire in 1968 decimated an apartment complex largely housing refugees from ex-Soviet states."

"Great. Pissed off ghost Ruskies," Peter says, pushing the nose of his positron thrower through some cobwebs which have stretched themselves across the stairs. 

Peter can see Egon raise an eyebrow at the over-simplification, but he doesn't comment on it. The PKE meter whirrs quietly in his hand. Peter suddenly realises it's one of only four working models they have left. Although Egon would always contribute in the design process, Peter's pretty sure Egon hasn't picked up a soldering iron since Columbia. How are they supposed to fix their gear, now they don't have Ray? Peter's mouth goes a bit dry as he realises he's probably got years of slowly being hit with how much Ray contributed to their lives, not just as their friend but as their partner.

"That's good though, right?" Winston says, leading the pack up to the second floor where the strongest readings seem to be coming from. Peter is in the middle, guarding the ceiling, and Egon is bringing up the rear, fiddling with the meter. "I mean, we may have a chance of dispersing them non-violently if they're just trapped here and can't cross over."

"Yeah, but when do we ever get that lucky?" Peter says through gritted teeth.

Almost at that moment, just to spite him, the stairs underneath them creak and groan. The group freezes and Peter's stomach lurches as the stairs suddenly flatten to a 45 degree angle, forming a slide. They all go down hard, and land in an undignified pile at the bottom of the stairs, Egon taking the worst of it.

There's a large, amused cackle from upstairs that makes Peter grimace.

"Whee! Do it again, do it again!" Peter demands, sarcastically.

He rolls off Egon as soon as he's able, with Winston getting to his feet immediately. Peter offers his hand to Egon who takes it, being pulled upwards to standing.

"Great, so what do we do now?" Winston asks.

"Can we take the elevator? We never take the elevator," Peter asks, brushing himself down.

Egon shakes his head, thinking. "No. The elevator is never a good choice. If our assumptions are correct then it may be best to start this tactfully."

Egon walks towards the staircase, which has now righted itself. Peter watches him look up the stairs and wait for some unknown sign before calling.

"My zdes' chtoby pomoch' vam!"

There's silence for a few seconds. Peter swallows, wondering whether to interject, but the sing-song child-like voice replies at a volume which shakes the foundations of the house.

" _Pochemu? "_

"What's it saying?" Peter hisses at Winston, who shrugs, clueless. Egon is, apparently, less clueless, and walks closer to the stairs before speaking again.

"Gde tvoya mat'?"

" _Moya mama?_ "

"Da, vasha mat'. Ya khochu pogovorit s ney."

Egon puts his foot on the bottom step, carefully. When it doesn't collapse under him, he turns around and looks at Peter and Winston in turn.

"It is highly likely they will not allow you two to accompany me up there. I suggest you go outside and attempt to obtain a ladder which will allow you to reach the second-floor unaided. I will try and finish this peacefully, but I may require your assistance should things go wrong."

"So, wait for the screaming, yeah?" Winston says.

"Precisely." Egon nods, firmly.

Peter watches Egon slowly walk up the stairs, eyes fixed on the PKE meter, which is flashing more frequently the closer he gets to the top of the staircase. Peter can't help but feel something is off here, but there's something stopping him from making the connections he needs to realise why. Frustrated, Peter stows his thrower and heads to the door in a quick jog, resolving to get signed up to some language classes at the local community college.

 

-

 

Egon steps into the nursery which, according to the PKE readings, appears to have the strongest concentration of spectral presence to the other rooms in the house, although he can detect small presences in several other places. Egon suspects that there is probably a varied infestation of ghosts within the building, which have gathered together. Egon also suspects that the ghosts would have peacefully existed here, causing trouble to no-one, was it not for the developers who were keen to have the place swept clean for a new high-rise. 

" _Ya zdes'_ ," Egon announces to the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Egon can see a burned out old crib shaking violently. Egon approaches it cautiously, and winces when he sees what it contains.

There is a small, blackened corpse, which is only identifiable as something spiritual due to the miasma of spiritual energy surrounding it. It doesn't appear to have anything resembling human features, other than a wide gaping hole in the centre of what should be a face. Egon feels his stomach turn as he looks at it, but he is unable to look away.

The thing cries, a noise so devastatingly loud Egon has to slam his hands to the sides of his face to cover his ears. The sorrow clutches at the innermost parts of him and Ray's face is suddenly pulled to the forefront of Egon's mind. Egon feels the waves of guilt claw at him again and has to tear his glasses off his head, putting his hands over his eyes instead of his ears to stem the flow of tears.

The thing has stopped crying when Egon can find some semblance of control. When Egon puts on his glasses again, he can see the thing is now being held in a blanket, as if a small child, by a ghostly violet apparition with piercing blue eyes, black hair tied strongly behind her head. 

" _Ya ne khochu, chtoby yego razbudit,_ " Egon apologises.

The violet creature holds one of her fingers to her lips, and shushes him. Egon remains quiet until the violet ghost gently rocks the corpse a couple of times, before laying him tenderly in the crib, carefully removing the blanket from where his face should be, as if worried of him being suffocated.

"There is no need to speak Russian. I learned American for this country, it is time that I used it," the violet creature says in heavily accented English. Egon nods. "Why do you disturb us so? We only wish to sleep."

"I apologise," Egon says, watching as her feet trail over the carpet as she approaches. Her hair is dotted with silver mist, her eyes hard and cold. Egon feels very unnerved, which isn't at all unusual. There is a great connection between the corpse and its mother, and Egon makes sure not to stand between them. "Humanity often does not recognise the great impact the spiritual has on the world. The people who own this building wish to tear it down and make a new one. We are here to remove you to permit that to happen."

The violet thing's eyes flash with anger and it leaps in front of Egon's face. It's teeth are pointed, it's snarl terrifying. "I WILL NOT LET YOU."

"I don't doubt it," Egon says, his grip only slightly tighter on the PKE meter. "And I do not wish to move you."

"We have been moved too many times," the violet thing spits, steam rising from its reddening hair. "From the soil from which we sprouted, to the motherland which beat us, to this city which burned our flesh and called us parasites. I will not let you move us again!"

"I'm here to make a deal," Egon says.

The violet thing laughs, its voice high and crazy. "Deal? Deal? What mortal deal can interest me? I have all the power; you have absolutely nothing to offer."

"I notice your chains around your neck," Egon says, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "You hold a crucifix there. You were Orthodox before you were killed?"

"God is dead," the violet thing spits.

"We can agree on that," Egon murmurs. " _Superbia_ , or pride, are you aware of the concept?"

"What riddles are you telling me?"

"What, above all else, do you hold in highest regard?"

Egon doesn't need to know the answer. As predicted, the violet thing looks away from Egon's face for a split second, and towards the crib.

The violet thing narrows its glare. "What is the offer?"

"Life," Egon says, moving over to the crib. The violet thing accompanies him, holding close to his shoulder. "This was your child. You didn't give birth to him alive, did you? Stillborn. I can tell by how unformed he is, how he was unable to fully imprint as a spirit. He never drew first breath. Under Orthodox law, he never truly died, as unless a child draws breath before dying, it is unable to be buried within a cemetery."

The violet thing shakes with anger. Egon can hear the air thrum with the power of the mother's grief, but he continues. 

"Your pride for your child goes against the word of your god. Even in death, you are convinced he lived and it traps you here, both of you, unable to pass over."

"Where was god when I screamed in the flames? Where was god when my father and brother were killed seeking solidarity?" the violet spirit screeches, its pain almost palatable in the air. "I know he lived. I felt his feet on the inside of my belly. How dare they say he did not live? How dare they bury him alongside some stranger, in a space in his casket, in some public grave, with no headstone? Fuck the church! Fuck god!"

The corpse squirms and cries and the violet thing quickly tends to it, sliding its fingers over its head. Egon watches the violet thing be completely unable to reconcile a lifetime of faith with pure motherly love. Egon cannot imagine the pain. But he knows how to use it.

"I can help him breathe."

The violet thing stops comforting the corpse. "You -- you cannot bring life to what is dead."

"What has never died," Egon says, carefully. "If he breathes, then dies, then he has truly died, under the law of your god. You will find your peace, be able to move on."

"It is not me that matters," the violet thing says, staring down in the crib. "It is him. What price must I pay?"

"Your afterlife," Egon says. "I want your pride. As that is the only thing keeping your presence here, it will dissolve your spirit completely. Whatever future it would have had -- in this plane of existence or any others -- will be lost."

"Without question," the violet thing nods. "Darkness, however eternal, is all I require, if he breathes. This... this is a good thing, yes? A very good thing. Why then, Egon Spengler, does your heart hurt to tell me?"

Egon catches his breath at the sound of his name. "Because you must do something very painful to me to allow this. Your baby is unable to truly breathe, even though it screams so, because it has no soul. You can give it part of mine." Egon blinks, trying to stave away the knowledge of the pain another split will cause. "It will be enough to let him breathe in this dimension, at least once."

The violet thing doesn't pause once it knows what must happen. Egon is surprised with the ferocity of the spirit's form, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him onto the floor, although he realises once he's down that he shouldn't have been.

It's hands turn to claws and its wild, pretty hair snakes out into tendrils which hold him down. Egon bites down hard on his lower lip until it bleeds, knowing he can't scream, lest this be interrupted.

The violet thing stretches two long fingers out and then pushes them directly into the centre of Egon's chest.

The pain is immense. Egon can feel his body twisting and turning, fighting desperately to keep together. Egon's throat is burning, his entire body on fire as it is broken so fundamentally. His vision goes and his ears are filled with what seems like blood.

Egon tries to picture Ray's face throughout the torture, but he can't seem to place his features, and eventually all he can do is hold onto the feeling of wetness on his face as his body forces him to cry, and then the hot rush of blood from his nose as his elevated blood pressure starts to burst vessels.

The darkness in Egon's vision is clouded by a misty white and Egon knows, distantly, that he's very close to passing out. His body jerks as he goes into shock and Egon hopes that the First Aid kit is still stocked with adrenaline, because he's not entirely sure his heart will be able to take the stress.

" _There_."

The voice is cold in his ears, but it's something to hang onto. Egon forces his eyes to compensate for the pain and can see the violet thing holding something moon-white between her outstretched palms. Egon sees her move in stages, like a low frame-rate movie, over to the crib.

In one picture, she is leaning over the crib. In the next, she is pouring the moon-white liquid into it. In the next, she is picking up a bundle of something small, perfectly formed, with a head of dark hair. Egon finds himself realising what a beautiful young girl the spirit must have once been, to have had the promise of such a beautiful baby.

Then, striking through the darkness, a tiny and weak, but truly human breath. Egon tries to keep his eyes open to see the violet spirit clutch her dead son to her chest, but the pain is too much and he can feel himself fading. He blinks open his eyes one last time, to see the violet spirit leaning over him, her arms full, her smile soft and waning.

"Thank you."

Egon wants to reply, to ask where the plot is that her son is buried, so they can go and re-bury him in a proper churchyard with a headstone, but he's too weak and the darkness of unconsciousness is already so close. With his last concious thought, he hears a trap open and a spirit enter it, and then the automatic closure.

Then, it's over.

 

-

 

"Pride is perhaps the most religious of the sins," Egon says, sitting in his chair, watching as Ray tinkers with a breadboard, aligning ICs and occasionally pressing wires to certain parts of the circuit, then connecting them to the test lamps. "To put yourself above god, essentially."

"And what is more above god then creating life?" Ray murmurs. "Fuck! This is really frustrating. I can't remember how to make an exclusive OR gate with NAND gates. This is first year Boolean Theory, for Zeus' sake."

"Why are we in a postgraduate electronics lab, out of interest?" Egon asks, running his fingers over the undergrad lab books that are piled haphazardly over the desk. It looks like it might be Peter's, by the state of it, but Egon isn't sure Peter ever set any actual work to his students, for fear of them requiring grading.

"Fancied a change," Ray says, before giving up and pushing the breadboard away.

"Why do I not believe you?"

Ray smiles, looking up at him. Egon feels his heart lurch, and wonders if Winston has just plunged the adrenaline booster into his chest.

"Alright, you got me. I like this place. It's where I first met you guys, remember? I was a lowly undergrad and you two were avoiding your supervisor because you'd spent the last few months investigating PSI theory rather than doing what was set out in your PhD plan."

"Technically only Peter was avoiding Dr. Kirik. I had completed my thesis during the first seven weeks of my PhD."

"Either way, I thought you guys were so cool," Ray says, wistfully tapping a screwdriver on his desk. "Especially because you were both talking about psychokinesis as if it was a plausible idea. I knew you would totally be on board with what I had been thinking about throughout freshman year. I just knew it."

"Then you spoke to us?"

"Oh, god, no," Ray laughs. Egon raises an eyebrow. "It took me, what, three months to work up the courage to speak to you two?" 

"Why?" Egon frowned.

Ray shrugs, knowingly. "You guys weren't exactly approachable. Besides, the way you looked at Peter --" Ray cuts off suddenly, readjusting himself in his seat. Egon narrows his eyes. "I just. Imagined something that wasn't there, I guess. I thought I'd be a third wheel. I thought you wouldn't be interested in what I had to say. I over-thought, essentially."

"How very unlike you." It hadn't meant to be a joke, but Ray laughed anyway. 

"Yeah. Glad I did talk to you guys eventually, though." Ray's eyes lit up and Egon finds himself smiling.

Then, with no warning, there's a large thump on his chest, with the force of being hit by a car, and Egon finds himself struggling to breathe. Ray runs towards him and helps him to the floor. Egon's body lurches again when another thump, like a brick being smashed against his chest, hits him with renewed vigour.

"I think they're re-starting my heart," Egon splutters. He groans as the thump happens for a third time.

"Hold on, Egon," Ray says, gripping his hand. Egon's vision starts melting, the focus of the room narrowing to a small halo of light around Ray's face. "Just remember us, okay? You, me --"

"Peter," Egon says, panting. 

"Peter," Ray smiles. "Yeah, Peter, you and me."


	4. Sin 3: Lust (part 1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one got ridiculously long, so will have to be in two parts.
> 
> "Put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry."
> 
> Colossians 3:5

The first thing Egon is aware of is the sound of the heart monitor. The second, the catastrophic pain in his upper torso. The third, the oxygen mask wrapped around his face. He self-diagnoses the acute injuries resulting from the intra-cardiac injection, and then tries to open his eyes.  
  
 _A hospital bed._  
  
"Dr. Spengler?"  
  
 _Nursing staff. Doctors._  
  
Egon's brain feels like it's being assaulted with information. The light is piercing, but blurry. He hasn't got his glasses on.  
  
"He's awake -"  
  
Egon doesn't know that voice.  
  
"Hey, my man Egon, you're still with us?"  
  
 _Winston_.  
  
Egon can see a blur of Winston's face in his sight-line. Winston smiles at him.  
  
"You gave us quite a scare there."  
  
With significant effort, Egon lifts his hand up to his mask, pulling it away enough for him to speak.  
  
"I'm sorry." Egon swallows, trying to regulate his breathing. For now, it seems the physical ramifications will be a lot stronger than the spectral. Egon finds himself grateful for that.  
  
"Nah, don't sweat it," Winston says, laughing, and his smile doesn't betray him. Egon puts his mask back on and relaxes his shoulders, reacclimatising himself to his body and the pain it comes with. "That must have been some fight back there. You got it in the trap though. Sorry we didn't make it in time."  
  
Winston holds the trap up in his other hand, smoke pouring from the doors. Egon swallows, pulling the mask off again and biting back a groan. The beeping increases as his heart rate rises. Egon lowers his breathing and hears the monitor return to normal.

"I need to - to study it. Don't put it in the containment unit." Egon stops, trying to catch his breath. "The lab."

Winston narrows his eyes and nods, stowing the trap back on his belt clip. "Yeah sure, man. Whatever you want. Try to calm down, okay? So... was this a big bad ghostie? Something we should be worried about?"

Egon shakes his head once, then starts to close his eyes, assuming that Winston will take the hint and leave him alone. Winston is nothing if not predictable and pats him on the hand before leaving his bedside to talk to one of the nurses, who is adjusting some dials on a drip.  
  
Egon slightly opens one eye to watch him. However, through the blur that accompanies his incredibly poor eyesight, he can only make out faint outlines. Winston lowers his voice, but not low enough for Egon not to hear.  
  
"Hey, I'm sorry about earlier. He's going through some stuff. He didn't mean what he said about your hair. Your clothes. Your... well, you know."  
  
The nurse says nothing in reply, but a doctor interrupts, hissing.  
  
"Believe me, if you lot weren't Ghostbusters, I would have called the cops. How does yelling at my nurses like that help us treat his colleague?"

Egon's heart rate rises and he finds himself unable to calm himself. The piercing shrill of the heart monitor snaps the attention of the hospital staff back to him. Egon tries to keep a semblance of control, but the sedatives coursing through his system have significantly disordered Egon's usual hormonal balance.

The doctor start ordering him to stay awake and flashing intrusive lights into his eyes. Egon tries to focus himself back onto a single thought, but that thought is unfortunately the one causing his heart rate to increase, the shortness of breath and the light-headedness.

_Peter, Peter, Peter._

-

Walter Peck had inhaled just a few nanoseconds previously to yell at his secretary for letting in whoever was making the disturbance outside of his office, but the breath is quickly forced from his lungs in a startled yelp as he is manhandled to a wall and someone's arm is pressed firmly across his windpipe.  
Walter's hands fly up to the arm of his assailant and he tries to pull him off, noticing only when he can breathe again that he knows exactly who the arm belongs to.  
  
"Venkman!"  
  
Peter's eyes are hard, cold, dark. He's snarling, his teeth bared. Walter kicks him in the knee and Peter stumbles backwards. Walter bolts for the door but Peter grabs a hold of his arm, ripping the seams of the Armani sleeve as he pulls Walter back.  
  
Walter spins around and clocks Peter on the jaw, not having a moment of satisfaction before Peter has a grip close to his neck and is pushing him to the ground. Walter tries to move but Peter has him pinned, his knees painfully digging into Walter's thighs, his hands tight on his shoulders.  
  
"Why?" Peter yells, his eyes blisteringly cold. Walter can see some redness in the whites of his eyes. Peter pulls him up and then slams him down. Walter's spine flares with pain. "Why did you do this? Was it worth it? Did you hate us that much?"  
  
"I didn't do anything!" Walter protests, spluttering.

"Liar!" Peter shouts, taking a hand back to slap Walter around the face. Walter flinches, his hands up protecting his eyes.  
  
When the slap doesn't come and a second or two passes, Walter slowly lowers them. Peter is staring at him, the violence and red-hot rage which had previously thrummed through him seemingly gone as fast as it came. Walter uses the moment to kick Peter off him, rolling onto his front and catching his breath.  
  
"You fucking bastard," Walter spits, trying to get to his feet. "You're going to jail for this."  
  
"I don't care," Peter says, stumbling upwards. Walter can't catch his eye, but he hears painful defeat in his voice. "I don't care any more. Go on, throw me in jail. It's what you've wanted from day one, isn't it? Pairing me up with Bubba so we can do the cell block tango?"  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?"  
  
"Egon's dead!" Peter shouts, his voice breaking. The floor of Walter's stomach drops. His instinct is pity, then utter terror. Suddenly, he sees the broken man in front of him. Peter swallows, staggering towards the door. "He's dead, Ray's dead. That's it, I'm done. I'm handing in my resignation. I'm resigning from existence."  
  
"Venkman -"  
  
"Don't bother, you prick."  
  
"Venkman, he isn't dead."  
  
Peter pauses where he stands, turning around. "Don't bullshit me. I will kill you if you are bullshitting me."  
  
"The hospital just updated me -" Walter says, walking quickly to his desk. He picks up the phone, speed-dialling the hsopital. "He's regained conciousness. Dr. Spengler suffered an enormous cardiac incident but he is stable."  
  
The words hang in the air as the phone dials through. Walter picks up the handset as the hospital's automated switchboard announces itself shortly after the third ring and offers it to Peter, stretching the cord out in the air.  
  
Peter doesn't even move, looking a good few inches to the left of Walter's face, his expression blank. Walter sighs and puts down the phone, rubbing his beard.  
"Go home, and we'll forget about this," Walter says, coolly. Peter looks at him, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "I mean it. This is a one-time offer, Venkman. Go home."  
  
"I saw him. I saw him in the hospital. He looked just like Ray."  
  
"Oh, Christ," Walter says, pinching the bridge of his nose. The last thing he wants is for Peter to have his long-overdue mental breakdown in the middle of his office.  
  
"I thought he'd killed himself," Peter mutters, looking down and to his left.  
  
Walter's ears zero in. "Spengler did this to himself? Intentionally put himself into harm's way?"  
  
Peter looks up, looking almost dazed to find Walter still there. Peter rubs his face, then some sort of re-evaluation passes over him, and he lowers his voice, walking over to where Walter is sitting back down in his desk.  
  
"Something... is going on," Peter says, then groans and puts his hands over his face. "And, fuck, you are the last son of a bitch I want to get involved in this, but you're the only one who's got any possible sway in this situation. I've been dreading this for far too long." Walter frowns, waiting. Peter looks away, his teeth gritted as he drags out the words with almost physical reluctance. "I need a favour. From you."  
  
Walter can't help it. He laughs, slapping the table. Peter growls at him and Walter suddenly remembers the hands around his neck and stops, readjusting his collar.  
  
"You're asking me for help? After all that? You were ready to kill me!" Walter's brain suddenly catches up with his mouth. "You thought I did it, didn't you? What - that I put a ghost hit out on Stantz and Spengler? What powers do you think I have, here?!? I'm not going to destroy the city - innocent citizens - just because I happen to think you're the worst example of contractors I've ever had to manage!"  
  
Peter shakes his head. "Yeah, how could I have thought an ass like you could have the brains to cook up something like this. Maybe I just wanted to take out some frustration, and I felt sorry for the punching bag at my gym."  
"Well, this is encouraging me to help you," Walter scowls. "Get out."  
"No. Look, listen - you're the only one Spengs will pay attention to," Peter says, sighing and rolling his eyes. "I mean, fuck, he'd listen to Ray, but he's not going to listen to me - not with something this big. I need you to get him to use me as a psychologist. Then I might have a shot at finding out what's going on."  
  
"What?"

"There is some serious shit going on down in Dr. Spengler's massively oversized brain." Peter pauses, although whether for dramatic effect or for actual emphasis Walter isn't - and never is with Venkman - sure. "He's acting severely strange, even for him. I'm worried about him, but he's not going to confide in me unless he has to. That's where you come in."  
  
"I... I instruct him to get psychological support? Tell him that he's benched until he does it?" Walter says, frowning. Peter nods. "There's no need for you though, is there, Venkman? He could go to any qualified psychologist in the city. Hell, he would probably be significantly better with a psychologist whose degree isn't written on the back of a beer mat."  
  
"Yeah, and what if this isn't just psychological. What if there's a ghost all up in there screwing stuff up?" Peter says, waving his hands around his head. "Do you know of one quack in this city who's better set to deal with that than me? Besides," Peter pauses, swallowing. "Look, I've been dealing with him and Ray since we were students. You know what he's like. I know him. Please."

Walter looks into Peter's eyes, trying to see the deception, the trick. Venkman looks like he's telling the truth, which is deathly worrying.

"What's in it for me?"

"What, other than keeping the Ghostbusters together and not leaving the city defenceless?" Peter grimaces, crossing his arms. "What do you want?"  
  
"Re-open the discussion on franchise rights."  
  
"No. Absolutely not."  
  
"Jesus Christ, Venkman," Walter sighs, tapping a pen on his desk. "Don't you see how dangerous this is? The Ghostbusters are the sole contractor for the entirety of the city of New York. Even though Dr. Spengler will no doubt recover, what if you and Zeddemore are wiped out tomorrow? The city will be completely defenceless - we have no back up plan. Sure, I could acquire your assets, but your nuclear technology will be more of a hazard than a help without the proper training that we can distribute now to other persons to enable them to recover the city in such a case."  
  
Peter's teeth are gritted. Walter knows Venkman can't argue the point, not now that Dr. Stantz's death has brought it to the forefront of the issue. It's a mixture of greed and pride that keeps Peter refusing all franchising applications, not logic - sins which his friends have let him indulge in for far too long.  
  
"Fine," Peter says, finally. "But I'm only opening the discussion, not saying we'll take any Tom, Dick and Harry who wants to flip their dick out on our desk and measure it against us."  
  
"You have a way with words, Venkman."  
  
"Bite me," Peter grins with shark-teeth.

-

Peter is honestly surprised that Peck is apparently true to his word. Sure enough, the official report into Ray's death from PCOC comes with the caveat that all active Ghostbusters must attend weekly counselling sessions from appropriately trained psychologists, duel trained in both parapsychology and psychology. It's a combination that is so rare, even with the field of parapsychology expanding ever since the initial Gozer incident, that Peter's the only candidate in the tri-state area.  
  
After a loud and completely fake phone call to Peck, where Peter is as obnoxious as possible just outside the bedroom in Egon's earshot to try and show how much he doesn't want to have to deal with two patients on top of having to a third more of the work anyway, Peter theatrically throws up his arms and forces Janine to re-do their schedules.  
  
Winston gets Tuesdays before his baseball practice in the evenings, Peter's self-assessment takes place on a Saturday mid-morning once the hangover has cleared off and Egon has Fridays, in the afternoon, before he retreats for his weekend lab all nighters.  
  
It's a very boring five minutes with Winston before it becomes a foosball tournament with a quick sign-off. Peter sleeps through his own self-assessment and scrawls a paragraph on the back of a pizza box. The plan was to be more professional for Egon, but Peter realises as someone knocks on the door to his office that he hasn't showered in two days and his shirt smells of stale beer.  
"Ah, just like Columbia," Peter says to himself, before raising his voice. "Come in!"  
  
Egon comes in, raising an eyebrow. Peter leans back on his chair and grins, putting his hands behind his head.  
  
"Have you noticed that I'm the only one around here with an office?" Peter says as Egon takes a seat opposite him.  
  
"If I remember correctly, that was an insurmountable condition for you participating in the partnership." Egon swipes the empty chinese cartons off from the chair opposite onto the floor before sitting down. Peter watches him carefully, his eyes widening as Egon winces.

"You alright, big man?"  
  
Egon nods and Peter can see him swallowing. "Perfectly fine. As you were aware, my discharge from the hospital required me two days of bed rest, which I have now completed."  
  
Peter grins, crossing his arms. "Not without a fuss, though."  
  
Egon looks at him coldly. "There was no reason why we could not have moved my bed down to the lab, so I could work whilst recuperating."  
  
"I don't think you know what bed rest is, Spengs."  
  
"It seemed too boring to contemplate." Egon puts a stack of paper on Peter's desk. "I took the liberty of designing the appropriate forms for these sessions. I believe they will hold the required information Peck will desire from us."  
  
"Uh, cool." Peter swallows, looking at the height of the stack and wondering why he couldn't think of a plan which involved less paperwork. "Thanks, Egon."  
  
"How would you like to proceed?" Egon asks, tenting his fingers.  
  
There's a bit of silence as Peter thinks. He's bullshitted psych/parapsych sessions before, but usually towards co-eds who were a hell of a lot dumber than Egon is. Peter finds himself strangely drawn to the idea of initiating the session with similar motives to his Columbia conquests, but guesses Egon would be able to see through the attempts almost instantly. Peter's surprised to find it's that which stops him, rather than the fact he would be attempting his 'moves' on his best friend.

"How are you feeling?" Classic opening. Nice. Peter picks up a pen and starts playing with it.  
  
"Adequate, thank you." There is a huge pause. Egon raises an eyebrow in the silence. "Do you wish me to elaborate?"  
  
"That's basically the point, Spengs."  
  
Egon nods, looks at his hands, then back at Peter. "I feel a lot calmer than I have over the past few days. I believe it is symptomatic of my hormone levels returning to normal after the incident in Queens."  
  
"And the massive needle I had to stick into your heart," Peter mutters. Egon looks slightly alarmed. "What?"  
  
"I... wasn't aware you were the person who carried out the emergency intra-cardiac injection," Egon says, his eyebrows knitting. Peter leans forward onto his desk, reading Egon's face. Shame? Fear? "I believed it was Winston."

"Yeah, well, I think I've inadvertently become the medic for this team. Just call me Hawkeye."

"In the future, I believe we should be properly trained to administer adrenaline through a centrally-placed IV or through an intraosseous injection. There are several medical papers which are debunking the preference for intra-cardiac involvement -"

"Spengs, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather never have to do that again."  
  
Peter shivers as he remembers how it felt. He was so terrified and felt so alone, yet utterly in control at the same time. Egon had looked dead. Felt dead. More dead than Ray had, maybe because Peter had assumed the worst. Ever since Ray, Peter had carried around the med kit and re-trained himself with the guide that came along with it. Even though he knew it was survivors guilt, Peter still wondered whether a trained first-aider could have kept Ray alive long enough for the EMTs to arrive.

Peter snaps himself out of his delusion, rubbing his eyes and wishing he had had more sleep last night. Egon looks at him with his normal piercing stare and Peter shrugs.  
  
"So, apart from me swiss-cheesing your rib cage, you're all fine? How about mentally?"  
  
"I don't know how you wish me to answer."  
  
"Are you sleeping alright? Any dreams you want to tell me about?"  
  
"I wasn't aware you were particularly Freudian in your professional approach."  
  
"Now, now Spengs," Peter chides, wagging a finger. "You should know by now that I have no professional approach. Tell me about your dreams. Is it all fungus and mathematics, or do you occasionally get to see Janine flagrantly baring her ankles?"  
  
Egon's cheeks slightly redden. "My dreams... are irrelevant. I control my dreams."  
  
"Oh yeah, the lucid dreaming thing. You're still doing that?"  
  
"Ever since I was a small child."  
  
Peter notices the muscle above Egon's right eye twitch and his eyes slightly flicker. It's one of the smallest tells Peter can recognise in Egon and has been fundamentally important in thrashing his ass in poker during long nights on call.  
"You've not been lucid dreaming lately, have you?" Peter asks.  
  
Egon narrows his eyes. "I thought we had scientifically concluded you were not capable of telepathy?"  
  
"Don't change the subject, Egon. It's true, isn't it?"  
  
Egon pauses. Peter can see the cogs of his mind working and waits as patiently as he can.  
  
"I have been having some dreams which were not entirely my control, yes. I am still able to influence them. I am still concious during. I have the beta-1 frequency brain wave activity which is consistent with my lucidity."  
  
"Mazel tov," Peter grins. "What's going on in these dreams? Any particular reoccurring theme?" Egon's face remains stoic, pale, but Peter can see his eyes un-focus. Peter's heart skips. "Ray."

"Yes, Ray has been the reoccurring theme," Egon confirms, slowly. He re-adjusts his glasses.  
  
Peter feels his heartbeat in his ears, Ray's absence suddenly so loud in the room it's almost deafening. Peter knows he isn't good with this sort of conversation. There's a solid something in his chest that makes him want to run straight out of the door.  
  
"Egon... we haven't spoken about Ray since..." Peter doesn't want to say 'that time you went crazy and got Winston to punch you out' so leaves it hanging. "It's okay to be upset, to be depressed. He was -" Peter pushes the emotion down into the absolute pit of his stomach, "an amazing, wonderful friend and person and, fuck, I miss him so much."

Egon nods, but doesn't look at Peter's face. Detached. Peter wants to shake his shoulders, or slap him out of the funk. Peter can't imagine the nightmares his brain must be creating for him. Some sort of perfect hell of guilt and depression. No wonder Egon's acting so strange, if every night he's going through some sort of personal torture.  
  
Peter stands up and walks around to the couch, sitting on it. When Egon doesn't move, Peter slaps the couch.  
  
"Come on," Peter says.  
  
"I thought it was only the patient who was supposed to lie on the couch."  
  
"Hey, there's not much room to lie down, but if you wanna try it I wouldn't mind."  
  
Peter honestly propositioned the idea as a joke, which he realises as Egon looks at the situation and opts to sitting down on the spare side of the sofa and swinging his legs over Peter's lap to have probably been a mistake. Egon puts his head on the arm rest and tents his fingers, looking upwards. Peter chalks this incident up to another hazard of working with genius and shakes his head.  
  
"Usually its me getting my legs over on this couch," Peter murmurs, smiling.  
  
Egon isn't smiling, instead looking contemplatively at the ceiling.  
  
"Peter, I would be interested to know your opinions on insanity."  
  
"Well, I'll hand it to you, Spengs - that's a better conversation opener than 'so how about them Nicks?'"  
  
"Do you believe I have been acting irrationally?"  
  
Peter thinks for a bit. "Honestly? No. I feel like you've been acting according to ration which I don't understand. I dunno whether I'm too stupid to understand it, or whether you're just not telling me -"  
  
"You're not stupid, Peter."  
  
"So you are not telling me?" Peter says.  
  
"I -" Egon pauses in his reply. "If I were, would you trust that is for a good intention?"

"You're not telling me something, for what reason?"  
  
"To protect you," Egon mutters. Peter tries to look at him, but from the angle he can only see Egon's chin. Peter wonders whether Egon planned the position. Everything's started to feel like a game of chess, or one of Winston's carefully constructed mystery novels.  
  
"What if I'd rather not be protected, because I'm worried about you?"  
  
"You don't need to worry about me."  
  
"It's not really a thing which you can tell me to stop doing, Egon. It comes with the territory of being your friend." When Egon doesn't reply, Peter continues. "So, you're doing things according to logic you can't tell me about. Is there anything I can do to help you?"  
  
Egon moves himself back, allowing himself to sit up.

"You can... be here for me," Egon says, and Peter's struck with how weird the phrase comes from Egon's mouth, like a child reaching a conclusion. "You and Ray have always been there for me and I - it would be significantly assuring if I knew -"  
  
"I'm not going anywhere, Egon," Peter says. Egon looks slightly ashamed, so Peter gently squeezes one of Egon's calf muscles. "Just... promise me you're not going to go anywhere too."  
  
Egon nods, the hint of a smile on his face. Peter feels a yearning for Ray to break into the conversation, to bring them some levity with a group hug which Peter would groan about and Egon would blush to the roots of his hair, but they would do it anyway. Without him, Peter cannot connect to Egon on his level, and no one is around to break through Peter's insincerity and towards what he's too afraid to say.

"Hey," Peter says, trying to break the silence. "If Ray was here, what do you think he would say?"  
  
Egon looks at the ceiling for a bit before responding, screwing his nose up. "I believe he would instruct us to perform a group hug."  
  
Peter laughs and Egon looks at him curiously. "We both know that man a little too well."

-

"Has he ever been gone this long?" Winston asks, even though he knows the answer.

Janine would never,  _ever_ admit to being worried about any of the boys -- even Egon who, Winston is assured of, Janine only holds a residual candle for -- but Slimer is another story. Although Janine would profess to only wishing to not be lonely in the Firehouse whilst the crew were out on busts, Winston is sure she feels some sort of pet-like adoration for the little slimeball, no matter how many pairs of shoes he's ruined looking for candy.

"Never," Janine confirms, crossing her arms. "He's run away -- I _know_ it."

"Was he upset the last time you saw him?" Winston asks, perching on a corner of Janine's desk. 

Janine sighs. "I don't even know the last time I saw him. It was a couple of days after -- Ray," Janine bites her lip. "I mean, could that be it? He's grieving or something? Run away to try to make sense of it?"

"What, the ghost can't deal with death?" Winston shrugs. "I dunno. We'll have to ask Egon."

"No, don't --" Janine puts her hand on Winston's arm. "I don't want to put it on him. And Dr. V couldn't give a shit if Slimer exploded. Can't you just go down-town in Ecto? It might flush him out."

Winston smiled at her reassuringly. "Sure. I'll just go a couple of times around his regular haunts -- no pun intended. Ask if anyone's seen him. He probably has just gone out on a binge, you know." 

"Mmm," Janine nods, biting the side of a perfectly manicured nail.

Winston taps her on the shoulder. "Don't do that. I'm sure that was expensive."

Janine stops, giving Winston a familiar scowl, but one that had an undercurrent of 'thanks'. Or, at least, that's what Winston hopes.

The drive is actually quite relaxing. Winston finds himself enjoying having some free time away from Egon and Peter, listening to talk radio and the local soft rock station. Winston slowly drives by the local pizza places, keeping an eye out for moving trash cans in the darkened alleyways.

After forty-five minutes of crawling the street, trying not to look like the world's most obvious John on the lookout in the world's least discreet vehicle, Winston's come up with nothing but two homeless guys fighting and a particularly pissed off alleycat. Winston's tempted to head back to the Firehouse, but the prospect of a night in with the guys has lost its allure ever since Ray's death.

Most guys from the Marines who kept in touch with Winston automatically assumed that he and Peter got on a hell of a lot more easier than he and Egon or he and Ray (or, as the guys referred to them as, the 'weird scientists'). Although Egon was, yeah, a complete nutcase that Winston constantly had to get to slow down and repeat explanations, Ray had arguably been closer to him than Peter.

Although Peter made a hell of a lot more sense than Ray and Egon could at times, he was often aloof and had trouble turning down his defences to relax and enjoy a game of football. Ray was another story. He was a normal guy, most of the time, and the hours spent working on Ecto-1 with him were some of the best Winston can remember at the company.

Without Ray, Winston's not sure how everything is going to work in the future, although he's always hopeful something will happen -- and hopefully soon.

In lieu of going back to another possible frosty session with the recently un-bed bound Dr. Spengler and the caged Dr. Venkman, Winston decides to try one more place Slimer's been known to hang around -- the garbage bins just outside the kitchen of the Sedgewick Hotel.

"Slimer?" Winston yells as he slams the back door of Ecto-1 shut after putting on his gear. Years of being caught on the fly have taught him to always wear a proton pack when approaching dark alleyways. "You out there, buddy? Janine's worried about you."

Winston walks down past the sparkly entranceway of the hotel and down to the back-streets behind. The only light is ambient. Winston quickly pulls out his torch as he hears a nearby noise. One of the trash can lids is lying on the floor, spinning.

"Man, they do not pay me enough," Winston mutters, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. "This place is creepy. And I _know_ creepy."

There's something which sounds very familiar to Slimer's burble coming from around a corner. Winston stows his torch and takes out his thrower instead, resisting the temptation to turn it on and deplete the charge whilst he isn't sure there's even anything to zap.

Turning around, the hovering green slimeball brings a relieved smile to Winston's face.

"There you are, buddy! You've scared us, and not in your good way."

Slimer seems to be focused on the brick wall in front of him, where his hands are tracing what looks like a pattern in green, glowing slime. Winston frowns, walking towards him, being very careful not to startle him for fear of a thorough slime shower.

"Slimer? What is it, buddy?"

Slimer gives a loud frustrated whine, looking at Winston and indicating at his paintings on the wall.

"I'm sorry buddy, I can't understand you. Ray --" Winston shakes his head. "Sorry man, I forgot. Yeah, Ray could speak your special language. I can't Come back to the Fire House, Egon'll get that doohicky that translates you up and running."

Slimer lets out more frustrated sounds, grabbing hold of Winston's uniform and jabbing at the painting. Winston tries to look at it, standing back. He squints. 

"Hey, are these letters? You're trying to spell something out for me?"

Slimer nods frantically, returning to his work. Winston can pick out a few of the more obvious characters -- a O there, an S maybe -- but most of them are indistinct goop. There's something frighteningly pathetic about a ghost having to communicate using its own ectoplasm. Winston thinks it's very similar to a human having to write with their own blood.

"I'm sorry, I can't read it," Winston admits. "I'll get you a pen and paper, we'll have a go --" The wind suddenly picks up in the alleyway, swirling newspapers into the air. Winston's hands go to the thrower, flipping off the safety switch. Slimer yells at the noise, trying to grab the thrower out of his hand. "Hey! Careful, Slimer! I'm not going to use it on you!"

Slimer's jabbering is more frantic, more panicked. Winston sees movement out of the corner of his eye and directs the nozzle of the thrower directly at a paintbrush which is dipping itself, unaided, into an old discarded tin of paint. Slimer puts himself between the thrower and the paintbrush, causing Winston to start.

"Oh. Okay, I get it. The paintbrush is your friend?" Slimer nods, flicking slime all over the place, his hands held tight together in front of him. Winston lowers his thrower, watching as the paintbrush moves towards the wall. "Alright, paintbrush. I ain't no art critic, but this better be good."

The paintbrush slowly starts to move over the bricks in clear, white lettering. Winston watches with Slimer as the paint slowly clarifies Slimer's poor attempts at the English script. However, the task is slow moving, and Winston finds his fear being replaced with boredom.

"P-R-O-T-E-C-T S-L-I-M-E-R. Protect Slimer?" Winston says, after around a minute of painting. "Who from? Why's he in danger?" The paintbrush goes back for another dip and Winston sighs, leaning against the wall and pulling out a pouch of tobacco and rolling papers. "This is going to be a long one, huh? You guys really need to learn about this new invention -- it's called a fax machine."

Winston finishes his cigarette watching the paintbrush slowly fill the wall with its message. The initial letters start to bleed into the others with the weight of the paint. Winston wishes he had a camera to be able to give more evidence to the guys. Although Egon and Peter (and Ray) always believed the crazy shit Winston has to tell them, it always makes Winston feel saner to have the proof in his hands when he does.

"PROTECT SLIMER," Winston reads, when the paintbrush hovers in mid-air, upright and apparently finished. "PROMISE MADE. SLIMER OFFERING. GOZER." Winston shivers. "Gee, you guys never have anything happy to say, do you?" Winston moves closer to the final sentence, so low on the brickwork that the darkness has covered it. Winston flicks on his torch and reads. "NOT SAFE WITH GHOSTBUSTERS."

The paintbrush hovers close to Winston's face when he stands up.

"Now, look here," Winston says. "I dunno what the low down is in the haunted paintbrush community, but the Ghostbusters are definitely the safest place for the Spud. We've taken care of him so far, haven't we, buddy?"

For some reason, Slimer seems to be shaking his head, which makes his whole torso move and slime flick everywhere. Winston frowns. "Hey! I know we try and keep you out of the chicken fingers, but that doesn't mean you're any less safe."

The paintbrush shakes and goes back to the last sentence, thickly underlining the word 'NOT'. 

"Why not? Tell me," Winston says. The paintbrush moves back to in front of Winston's face, and taps him on the nose. "Hey!"

Winston starts wiping his face free of paint. There's a pulling sensation in the pockets of his uniform and Winston sees his papers and tobacco hovering in front of him. 

"What are you --?"

The papers quickly separate in front of Winston's eyes, filling with tobacco. The cigarette is carefully constructed with the quick finesse Winston has only seen in the men who work on his dad's construction site and...

"No way," Winston says, shaking his head as the enormity hits him. " _Ray?_ "

The cigarette drops to the floor as instantly as Winston says the name. Winston stands, in shock, staring at the cigarette until Slimer swoops down and eats it.

-

"Peter misses you," Egon says, next time he's asleep and Ray is around in his mind.  
  
They've moved from the lab to the small office for Paranormal Studies they used to share in Columbia. Egon did not have extremely fond memories of the place. It was cramped and inadequate for a significant amount of the experiments which he wanted to perform. Egon wasn't ungrateful for the facilities, but he often took to using the electronics labs rather than the office, which had become Peter's domain for his own 'studies' which were of questionable scientific importance and almost always involved cheerleaders.  
  
"I guessed he would," Ray says. They are holding hands again, which Egon has decided he rather likes. The connection is as much mental as it was physical - Egon is convinced that Ray is clearer in personality if they were touching, as if the contact - however abstract - solidified his spectral form. Egon wishes that he was able to take his instruments into the spectral plane to perform suitable tests to confirm the hypothesis, but only in the waking hours. When Ray was holding his hand at night, Egon found himself unable to think of doing anything better than continue to hold his hand.

Well.

Maybe not _nothing_.

"What was that?"  
  
Egon swallows, looking at Ray who is smiling at him. "I wasn't aware I said anything."

"Same mental plane," Ray says, tapping on Egon's forehead. "We're probably sharing the same thought wave frequency in this space. You were thinking -"  
  
"About kissing you," Egon says, completing the thought. "And so were you, just now."  
  
"Have you always thought about kissing me?" Ray asks, almost innocently.

Egon finds his cheeks are on fire, which doesn't make any sense considering there is no reason for the action of the sympathetic nervous system in a body which is, in fact, spectral image.

"Not always," Egon says. He looks around the room for something - anything - to distract the path of the conversation.

"How long?" Ray grins. "Wish I'd known. Would have made long nights in this office very interesting."  
  
"You would have reciprocated?" Egon is astonished. Ray shrugs, still smiling. "I thought you were -"  
  
"Egon, in the ten years you've known me, have I ever had an actual girlfriend?" Ray rolls his eyes at Egon's blank expression. "Peter was right about you. You really can't see what's in front of your face with this stuff - if Janine didn't get through to you with her flirtation, I had no chance."  
  
"You were interested." Egon's suddenly furious with himself, with his absolute inability to read people. "If I had known -"  
  
"You would have freaked out," Ray says, squeezing Egon's hand. "When Peter finally told you how Janine felt, you couldn't speak to her for a week. You used to hide in cupboards to avoid her - you remember?"  
  
"I wasn't hiding; I was inspecting a particularly rare genus of mold."  
  
"I couldn't do that to you, to us. I'd rather that we were friends then risk breaking that bond with you. Besides, there were - other interested parties."  
  
"Winston assured me that, after Louis, Janine had 'had her fill of gawky men'."  
  
"I wasn't talking about Janine." Ray looks intensely into Egon's eyes. It comes to him in a flood of half-stolen images from eyes that are not his own. Brief glances, shared smiles, someone grabbing someone by the arm, drunken secrets whispered, emotive shouting.  
  
"Peter," Egon says, feeling numb. "Peter - Peter is -"  
  
"Yeah." Ray gives Egon a little half smile. "I mean, I don't know if he knows it. I always thought you two were - something. I was really surprised when I found out you were just friends. And then, with Dana, I thought may be I'd got it wrong again. They seems so secure, you know? Especially the second time, with Oscar. But Peter just wrecked that relationship, both times. Nuked it. It's like he doesn't want to be happy, or he doesn't let himself be happy. With anyone other than us, anyway."  
  
"That doesn't mean -"  
  
"I know, I know. Correlation doesn't mean causation." Ray rubs his face with the hand that isn't nestled in Egon's. "But the way he looks at you. I don't think he'd hate the idea, if he ever had it. He's just closed minded."  
  
Egon sits in silence, contemplating. He had considered their relationship one of brothers, but maybe he had been mistaken. The complexities of human interaction had never been of interest to Egon, other than the extreme emotions which could result in imprinting on the physical world as a spirit. But he had felt secure, at home, in the company and companionship of both Ray and Peter. With Ray's death, Egon had realised in one moment how much Ray had meant to him, how much he had wanted him for so long without being able to process the idea. Egon wonders if Peter had died, whether he would have realised the same thing.  
  
"You could be happy with him," Ray says, softly. Egon sees Ray staring at their hands, a sad smile on his face. "You really could, Egon."  
  
"No." Ray looks at him, opens his mouth as if to complain. Egon continues: "We couldn't be. We need you, Ray. I need you. Peter needs you. This is more than the company. We have all been all together for so long, I don't think we can exist separately."

Ray smirks, shaking his head. "You have no idea how much the idea corroborates with everything I've learned from mystical theory. The triumvirate is common throughout all spiritualisms -" Ray's excitement dies on his tongue. "But we can't expect that, Egon. That would just be -"

"- too simple?" Egon completes. "I find it amusing that what you believe to be the most simplest solution is actually the most complicated. You are trapped in an existence supported only by universe's desire to keep stable, I am appearing to the majority of our dimension to be so unstable as to require psychological intervention and Peter has -"  
  
That is when Egon realises Ray is biting on his lip. Egon watches his teeth put pressure on his skin, concentrating on the physical desire instead of the path his brain has decided to run down, for a change. Egon feels the need to kiss Ray's lower lip burn across his skin. He can tell Ray can feel it too, by the way he looks at him, his cheeks ruddy and his breathing shallow.  
  
"Egon," Ray whispers, eyes flickering across Egon's face, his lips.   
  
Egon leans in and kisses him, taking his lower lip between his teeth. Ray murmurs against his mouth. Egon can feel Ray's eyelashes flicker against his face and puts his hands on Ray's nearest leg.  
  
It's slow and soft. Gentle. Egon finds he loves the small vibrations of Ray's lips as he makes soft sounds, adores the way he's able to taste Ray's smile.

The mood shifts with more contact, the slide of tongues and heavy breathing in the air. Egon groans, suddenly wanting more of everything and realising he has no idea how to make that happen.  
  
"You could kiss him," Ray says quietly against Egon's mouth, once they break for air, almost answering the question. Egon's brain reminds them that he doesn't need air, not while he's dreaming, but the break is brief before Egon has to kiss him again, moving his hands to Ray's short hair, letting Ray breathe against his mouth and biology take over.

"I want to kiss both of you," Egon says, kissing him again and again. Ray shudders at the words, his eyes sparkling at the promise. "I need -- I _need_ \--"

"I need it too." Ray screws his eyes up, frustrated. "God, Egon. This isn't _real_."

"It doesn't have to be real."

"Kiss him for me," Ray almost orders, suddenly pushing Egon down.

Egon loses focus on his mind for a split-second and lets Ray take control. They're in a dark room, on a large bed. It's a nondescript hotel room. Egon can hear the buzz of the air-conditioning, the starched sheets. He remembers this from somewhere, a back-brain memory. A conference they attended, perhaps? A convention of Ray's they were dragged along to?

Then Ray's mouth descends on him again and Egon can't think of anything but hazel eyes and soft lips. Egon pushes his hands into Ray's jacket, around his waist. In the new position, Ray's leg slides between Egon's legs, the pressure hard and solid. Egon starts, opening his eyes, Ray resting his forehead on Egon's.

" _God_ \--" Egon chokes. "I hadn't --"

"Are you touching yourself?" Ray murmurs, his eyes lidded, his breathing ragged. "In reality?"

Egon can't even imagine what his physical form is going through at the moment. He's in bed, probably inches away from Peter's cot. He feels a surge of blood rush south at that image -- Peter being so close, completing the triangle even in sleep. Would Peter realise what his heavy breathing meant? Would he know how desperate they were for him to come with them?

Ray slides his leg upwards and Egon loses his mind, letting out an almost pained noise as the pressure makes him bury his teeth in his lower lip.

"I -- I don't --"

"I want Peter to touch you," Ray says, murmuring into Egon's ear. "God, Egon, I've imagined it so often. Even more than I've imagined you and me."

Distantly, Egon can feel something sliding past the cords on his dressing gown and into his underwear, gripping him firmly. Egon knows it must be his own action, but he can see Ray's dilated pupils, his kissable lips above him. He can  _feel_  Ray's palm enveloping him.

"I want _you_ ," Egon begs, trying to buck his hips upwards. Egon can't see Ray's hands, but something twists around his erection, making his eyes roll back into his head. "Fuck -- I want -- I _want_ us."

Ray captures his mouth and starts sliding his hand with urgency. Egon pants, nodding desperately against Ray's kiss which is rapidly devolving into a clash of teeth. Egon can feel his pulse racing, his chest burning with the flush of impending orgasm as Ray works him towards it. 

"God, god, _god_ ," Egon finds himself babbling, unable to form sentences past the buzzing in his ears.

"God, you're gorgeous," Ray mutters into Egon's ear. "Should've -- oh, Gods --done this years ago. Want to watch Peter fuck you. Do you think he would?"

Egon's mind is in overdrive with images of Peter kissing him, Ray holding him, Peter touching him, Ray keeping him still as Peter did wicked things with his mouth. Ray's fantasies. So filthy Egon's face feels on fire. The indulgence is mesmerising.

" _Yes_ ," Egon doesn't know entirely what he's answering, but Ray takes that opportunity to slide his open palm over the head of his cock. It's all Egon can do to keep from shouting as his hips buck out the release.

His body shakes as sudden warmth takes over and Egon is suddenly more awake than he could ever remember being. Then, the coldness descends. The reality of the Firehouse, and four cot beds which did not lend themselves to privacy.

Egon sits up and reaches for his glasses, before turning his head towards Peter who, from the look of the lump of sheets, is still sleeping soundly. Egon finds himself disappointed, alone, his breathing still shaky.

"Shit," Egon swears, pulling back his covers to go for a cold shower, to re-evaluate and plan. 


End file.
